


Nag Kath   Book One; The Changeling

by Gelansor



Series: Nag Kath [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:15:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 168,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29338908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelansor/pseuds/Gelansor
Summary: Nag Kath is set as a sequel to The Lord of the Rings starting a year after the fall of the Black Gate. It follows a created character navigating the post-war landscape through most of Middle-earth. At almost 900,000 words, it twice as long as TLOTR so pace yourself :)This is the second edition.  To make it more manageable I divided the first version into six books.  There are 24 maps to go with the text. These are referenced in the relevant chapters or you can go here: https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8 for more detail. Thanks for looking and I hope you enjoy it. sh
Series: Nag Kath [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155053
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. The Changeling

**Author's Forward**

Thank you for reading my novel _Nag Kath_. This is my first attempt at fiction. I had an idea spinning in my head that wanted out. I am imagining Middle-earth as it may have developed at the dawn of the Fourth Age. This is purely for my enjoyment and I have made it public without any intention of personal financial gain. 

The yarn follows a created (literally) character as Middle-earth rebuilds from the devastation of the War of the Ring and the plagues and brush wars before and after. What follows in this forward is some of my methodology (or lack thereof).

Even writing this for myself, I always kept other readers in mind. A modest grounding in either the books ( ** _The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion_** _)_ or the movies will help. This is a thick novel at half again longer than all three of those works combined. 

****

** Economics **

My day job is in finance and I used a smattering of that to create several economies for this world. They include; currency, inflation, money-supply, values and incentive. One of the problems I have with a lot of fantasy writing is that a great lord decrees a great project shall be built. Unless you use slave labor, the guys with the shovels expect to be paid and fed. Someone has to move rocks from here to there. There will be people in-between who collect and dole the money. Some of them have sticky fingers.

More importantly; access to resources defines social strata and always has. The ability to build and use wealth for war, peace and lordly projects determines the flow of men and materiel. I have tried not to make money intrusive. It is just to give readers the price of dinner.

There is a modest discussion of currency in the **_Changeling_**. Chapter 12 is titled "The Value of Groats." In that, the silver tenth, arguably the castar or silver penny from **_The Hobbit,_** is the most valuable coin carried by everyday folk. I think of that as a Georgian silver shilling. Groats are half-farthings.

I am not using gold and gem levels from **_The Hobbit_** movies. I once read that all the gold ever mined would almost fill four Olympic-sized swimming pools. As much as is shown on the screen is a worthy dragon hoard, but would have virtually no value as currency. It looks cool, though. 

** Differences in the books and the movies **

I am old enough to have read the LOTR and Hobbit several times before the excellent Peter Jackson films. They vary quite a bit. For example; in **_The Return of the King_** volume, Saruman is killed in the Shire. In the extended movie he is impaled in Orthanc. My solution is to say he came to a bad end so readers can fill in their own narrative.

That said; the movies have completely replaced my original mental images of key characters. I’m guessing that for those who saw the films, those actors own the roles. In the unlikely event any of them read this, you were great. I apologize for graying your hair and adding pounds as your characters are unfrozen in time.

Erkenbrand didn’t make it into my story either.

** With respect to fanfic and games **

My novel is really a human interest story and does not borrow characters from role-playing games or created military history after Morannon. If I have ignored pieces that are considered near-canon among loyal fans, it isn’t because I dispute your lore.

** Maps **

Despite what I said about other fanfic and games, I have borrowed heavily from the maps of these cartographers and acknowledge them with references and thanks for their fine work. If a horseman can average 22 miles a day on a certain kind of terrain, that defines how long it takes to get somewhere, not including weather, combat and demons. Getting there is half the fun.

Internet maps from games and fanfiction are referenced with footnotes or chapter introductions. If you are reading this on a computer, it may help to visit <https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8> as you follow along. I usually kept a map on one screen and wrote on the other.

** European Equivalency **

My book is set centuries after the presumed Dark Ages Europe in most of Middle-earth. It is more-or-less a late medieval, quasi-feudal period in the lands of free-peoples. That has to square with the Hobbits who were portrayed as nearly Georgian with glass windows and mail delivery. Gunpowder has already been introduced by Saruman but I only use it for distractions and not as an armament.

The main reason for the extra centuries is that I need people. Characters along the road need towns and farms and reasons to travel two hundred miles. In the Tolkien appendices, Boromir took almost four months to reach Rivendell from Gondor in good part because he lost his horse at Tharbad and had to walk for lack of finding another mount. In my book, he would have been able to commandeer a horse. Populations are well below the glory of the middle Third-Age and some places are still desolate.

More-or-less in keeping with popular images, western Middle-earth ranges from lower Scandinavia to the Celts with a central European influence in Dale, merry old England for the Shire, north central Asia for Rhûn and Persia for Khand. Harad is similar to the Middle-East.

** Magic **

In my world, magic is on the decline. That is mostly because in my modest fantasy reading, great lords can flick a finger and cause massive destruction. I often find that dampens the human-interest lines. There are remnants of old powers and newer ones emerging, but they are rare and weak, nothing like the Valar or Maiar could conjure in previous ages. As ever, people fight over what is left.

** Language **

This is really hard for me on several levels. One is that I wrote a lot of this like a script rather than as a book. It is just how it comes to me so I apologize for the poor syntax and punctuation. I hope it is easy to follow.

Another issue is that I am following a story by a master linguist. My California Ye Olde Englishe would fail miserably. I have tried to keep language courtly. Like any BBC drama, high-born persons don’t use many contractions or spit before answering questions, salt of the Earth types; less so. Dialog is more Edwardian than narrative.

There are no swear-words in keeping with JRRT’s sensibilities. I had to create a couple epithets to replace ones we will all recognize. I have also reclaimed the words ‘gay’ and ‘queer’ from the 1930’s meaning no disrespect to more modern applications. There are quite a few other words, towns, rivers and descriptions I invented from whole-cloth for context in the appendices. Some Elvish names are pulled from online translators. Black speech; I was going for the sound.

** Characters **

In the main; canon-characters are extended from the originals. Mortals age and die on schedule if it was written. If not, I guess. Then there are hundreds of created characters. Quite a few are in an appendix with some detail on their origin, country and lifelines. In the books, Aragorn II is crowned King Elessar Telcontar (the Elf Stone and his family name). I use them interchangeably and don't use his birth name (Estel).

** Reproduction **

Sex is implied but not observed or gratuitous. I have kept this PG-13. This is not a children’s book. Orc reproduction remains a mystery.

** Commercial **

This was written purely for my own entertainment. I don’t expect to publish it, get paid or sign a three-picture deal. It is not intended to interfere with legal copyrights, privilege, distribution contracts or anything else in place to protect intellectual property. That said; if anyone figures out how to make a buck legally, cut me in.

None of this is copyrighted either. Use whatever you want with my blessing. Mention me or not. If this helps in your enjoyment, cheers!

Thanks again and I hope you enjoy reading this. sh

****

****

****

**_The Changeling_ **

**_Book one of Nag Kath_ **

****

**_Chapter 1_ **

**_The Changeling_ **

The meeting went smoothly. That happened more often. King Elessar Telcontar slowly rubbed his beard between thumb and forefinger looking at the assembled public works officials. They met most Thursday afternoons to update his Lordship on the state of rebuilding the realm generally and Minas Tirith specifically. Work like this was always slow and frustrating. 

They had been more fortunate than first thought. The city took massive damage in Sauron's frontal assault but the sides were relatively unscathed. Sauron planned, and nearly succeeded, in a headlong orc charge as the Nazgûl crippled the siege defenses. The army of the dead put paid to that, but it was close. Too close. 

Less fortunate then but useful now was that the money stingy old Denethor should have spent on defense was still in the strong room. Anthram Bathralas saw to the count. The Steward's long-time Minister of the Purse survived the war. He forgot nothing. Bathralas was a round, soft man with a ring of white hair surrounding his brilliant mind. King Elessar was pleased to find him reasonably honest. Most of the officials around the table had also fought at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Their offices and often their homes were above the orc advance.

The King, Aragorn in his prior life, pulled out of his brief reverie and asked if there was anything else before tea. From across the table, Minister Farkass gently cleared his throat. Tallonier Farkass was the chief engineer for public works. He was a tired-looking man of about fifty with a hint of humor in his eyes.

"My Lord, something has just come up in the gaols. I confess; I'm ill prepared to explain, but it's the sort of thing you've asked us to mind."

The King nodded slightly. Farkass continued, "Two small military dungeons on the second level were just detailed to the main prison office. Civilian staff thought them empty and the officer in charge was killed in the war. The new gaoler, a fellow named Randanold, sent a man to assess their condition. No one could find the keys so the fellow opened the viewing door of one and saw two eyes staring back at him."

Aragorn interrupted, "I didn't know we had any dungeons on the second level."

"I didn't either, Sire. They are small natural caves tucked in the rock not far from the junior officers' stables.” The man paused and added, "I wouldn't have bothered you but according to the records, this prisoner has been there for 15 months … and he's a captured orc."

"Heavens! Are you sure?"

"Not at all, sir. The Sarn't told Randanold that he didn't seem like an orc, but the light was poor through the peep door. Tidings arrived as I was walking up here. The gaoler's lads are trying to find the keys now. I'm off to Osgiliath as soon as we adjourn to help Lendellor set the pilings for the new quay. I can give you a better report when I'm back two days hence. An equipage has been created for the surviving Mûmikil to hoist the pile driver." That had been a useful discovery. They weren't vicious after their blood had shed the shalakiel weed and their groin spikes were removed. 

The King’s eyes narrowed as he instructed, "Help with the pier. Have gaoler Randanold bring the creature here tomorrow. I'd like a look at him."

A glance at his secretary/scribe had the little man peering through his half-spectacles at a schedule book. He raised his head and said, "Ten thirty is the nearest you have to a break in the morning, Sire. Hopefully the delegation from Harad will be brief."

King Elessar doubted that but continued, "Very good Farkass. Have the gaoler bring the orc here then with stout guards."

"Yes Sire, I'll see to it before I leave."

"That is all gentlemen. Thank you for your hard work."

All but one of the men rose, bowed and left through the corridor door chatting. The last of them watched the others close the door behind them. Minister Altides Levantos had not been with Denethor's working council. He was a soldier through-and-through. Small stature, undistinguished parents and a bad habit of being smarter than his betters kept him from rising higher than Captain in the old order.

King Elessar had little use for the hierarchy that produced Levantos’ superior officers. The soldiers, like most soldiers, were the salt of the earth. But the higher one rose in rank, the less they seemed to know their business. Many ran to the battlements when their marshals failed to command and many of those died. Both the living and dead were held in high honor. Officers who dithered were allowed to resign at full rank after a month of burial detail.

Levantos handled overall security for the kingdom but spent most of his time watching the top two levels of the white city. When the engineers were gone he said without preamble, "Wouldn't it be safer to just run the creature through?"

The King had already considered that, "Yes, but I'd like to see what we're dealing with here. For all we know, he's a drunken trooper someone forgot. If he is as Farkass says, he's the only survivor of the dark lord's orcish forces. I thought them all dead, but we still haven't had reliable reports from Moria or Gundabad. Keep the devil alive, at least until we learn what we may."

“And sorcery?”

“And sorcery.” 

What they both meant was that Sauron’s demise had not put paid to foul humors in western lands, never mind the enemy’s. The Rhûnic shamans did not die with the ring at the siege of Erebor. Most of them were slain by sword, but the others didn’t just drop dead like the Black Gate orcs. At the battle of the Pelennor, just outside these fortress walls, the enemy host was better than half men. Gandalf the wizard identified a few of their sorcerers where the army of the dead plowed through the center column, but a sizeable number of Haradrim and Mordor levies on both flanks turned-tail and escaped, along with their conjurers. Several Umbari mercenary ships at the end of their convoy, certain to each have a servant of the Witch-king, saw the situation was hopeless and floated back down the river. Two ships had women onboard. No, the world was much safer, but questions remained.

Levantos rose, "Very well, sir. I hope you don't mind if I drop by."

"I'm counting on it."

His scheduled business done for the day, the king rose and strolled to his private quarters. After a year, he hadn't quite gotten used to the guards being wherever he turned. He could thank Levantos for that. In the new order, his good health mattered to all. Lady Arwen was already back from the houses of healing. Like her father and the King himself, she was a natural healer and Gondor's need was great. There were still hundreds of wounded who would either need lifetime care or more rehabilitation before returning to as normal a life as they could.

Many of those were Rohirrim. Aragorn could never thank them enough. They came to Gondor's aid and were now more than a year from home trying to mend mind and body. With luck, the final caravan of those who could ever return to the horse-lands would leave before the first snow. Arwen asked, "How was your day, My King?" using the teasing formality he enjoyed. 

"I can see some of the hard work taking hold my Lady. The Osgiliath pier is finally underway.” After a moment he added, "I like the weekly builders meeting. They do things. There was one curious report; the works minister said an orc captured before the war was still imprisoned … still alive, evidently. 

Without batting an eye, the Queen asked softly, "Are there others?"

"Not that we know. If the records are wrong, he might be a soldier thrown in gaol for not saluting. I'll learn more tomorrow.

"Please keep me informed my love. This may fall to my experience."

_____________-------_____________

Rubbing his temples didn't help. For uncounted times, King Elessar regretted taking the council's suggestion to demand reparations from Harad. The Haradrim were penniless, always had been. Under Mordor's dominion for ages, their fierce warriors were mostly men who couldn't desert. Many of them were now buried under the Pelennor leaving their famously large families scratching meals from dry dirt. Full corps of surviving soldiers kept fighting after Sauron's demise, expecting no mercy. They were being brought to heel. But several small satrapies along the Harondor border saw the way of things and sued for peace independently. The King was treating with them now.

Please Yavanna, make their lands as fertile as their women. Pressing them for cash only increased refugee troubles in Gondor. Those were finally stabilizing, but tensions simmered in the poorer districts. 

By the time the Harad delegation and half a dozen other supplicants had cleared the receiving hall it was quarter of the three-bell and Aragorn was hungry. He rose from his working throne and walked under watchful eyes through the great hall. Harad's problems still spinning in his head, he looked at the waiting bench and saw a large Elf sitting patiently against the wall. Blonde and tall, he stood-out among the swarthy, bearded men. Leaning against him was a grizzled fellow gently snoring. Three city guardi were standing nearby. Two held standard seven-foot Klaus staffs and one was armed with a long sword. 

Always glad to see unexpected Elves, the King turned towards him with a smile. The Elf responded with an uncharacteristically large grin of his own. Aragorn then said in the Elvish language Sindarin, "What a pleasant surprise!"

The Elf's smile waned and he roughly shook the sleeping man's shoulder. It was then the King heard the clank of iron manacles bolted to the Elf's wrists. The grizzled man startled awake, saw his liege fifteen feet away and jumped to attention, somehow managing a curt bow in the motion. A six-foot leather lead buckled to his wrist was woven into the Elf's restraints. The Elf stood as well, but not with the same military precision. All three guards kept their eyes on the man with short, blonde, dandelion hair.

"Gaoler Randanold reporting with the prisoner, Sire!"

The King stated flatly, "I didn't know we had any Elves in custody."

Randanold looked at the six and a half foot-tall captive for a moment and turned back to his King, "This is the orc Minister Farkass instructed me to present, My Lord."

Moving closer he asked the stout man, "Are you sure?"

Randanold had prepared. Nobody would believe this. "Sire, we're not sure of anything. All we know is the last record of that cell being used was for an orc captured before the war and this is what walked out this morning. I brought some of his kit."

The gaoler dragged a burlap bag off the waiting-bench. Reaching in, he produced an Uruk-hai helmet bearing the white hand of Saruman. The King had slain dozens wearing the same. As Randanold was handing the helmet to his liege, the prisoner snatched it away and considered it intently growling, " ** _Lok nossh durhamm ghool._** " 

Aragorn didn't understand the phrase but he instantly knew the sound of the black speech and stepped back with his right foot into a fighting pose. The Elf offered the King his helmet with a bashful smile. Aragorn pointed to Randanold's open sack and the Elf dropped it in.

"Does he speak our language?"

The gaoler shook his head, "He's only said that and something like it earlier, Sire. He doesn't understand us. Hand-gestures is how we got him here.”

Remembering they had been here since this morning the King asked, "Have you and your men eaten, gaoler?

Randanold was about say they were fine when his stomach growled.

The King signaled two attendants waiting quietly in the wing. Both approached to the prescribed twelve feet and bowed. To the older man he said, "Go to the fifth level archives and ask Scholar Mendies to join us in the small conference room in half an hour. Tell him to bring an associate familiar with the black speech or orcish tongues. Then tell Minister Levantos to return." The King quietly added to himself, "He's going to love this." The man nodded, took two steps backwards and turned towards the staircase.

To the younger page he instructed, "Please tell the kitchen to bring a light supper for eight men to the small room. Off you go." The lad scampered away, forgetting to bow again. He was new. Finally, King Elessar pulled his head slightly to a pair of palace guards. They approached with minimal bows. Their job was to watch everyone but their Lord. "Take these men to the small conference room. This is the one to watch." nodding to the towering blonde.

Gaoler, prisoner and guardi walked to the council rooms under watchful eyes. Elessar continued on to his quarters where a private lunch was always ready. He usually took his mid-day meal alone, and never with orcs.

The small conference room was a relative term. It was a rectangle of twenty by thirty paces with long oaken tables set in a square close to the window wall. Gaps on opposite corners let liveried attendants bring platters of cold meats, fruits, vegetables and bread. A silent gesture from the King’s guards had the men array themselves. Randanold sat near the center of one table with the Elf chained to his left. The two younger guardi leaned their staves against a window nook and sat at the table to the gaoler's right.

The guardi with the sword neither sat nor spoke. He was twice the age of the other two with an old scar running from his brow to one cheek that by some miracle missed his eye. The palace guards watched him as well. Long-swords were uncommon on the upper levels and prohibited on the seventh without special leave. He should know to step back three more paces when the King arrived.

This light supper was a feast for the seated guardi with no standing on ceremony, though they wished there was more than cold tea to wash it down with. The orc devoured everything but the meat. Within five minutes the food was gone. The guardi closest to the prisoner stared at the untouched cutlet like a hungry puppy until the blonde creature slid the plate his way.

A few minutes later, the King arrived with Minister Levantos. Aragorn sat at the center of the table to the gaoler’s left and the security chief took the chair of the far guardi as they both fetched their Klaus staves and took positions near the windows. The swordsman properly moved further from the King. Aragorn scanned the faces at the table and said to Randanold, “I’d like to hear the full story. Please start from the beginning and leave nothing out. Take as much time as you need.”

Randanold had thought of nothing else all day. This was an opportunity. He pulled a small notepad from his vest pocket and thumbed to yesterday’s entries. He didn’t need to review the scant information but it helped him marshal his thoughts. It wouldn’t hurt that all present knew he could read and write either.

“Thank you, Sire. I’m recently promoted to head gaoler and that newly includes auxiliary cells on the second level. Two of those were near the officers’ stables, occasionally used for military prisoners awaiting review for serious offenses. I sent my sergeant to inspect them for future use. The main gaol has plenty of room but it pays to take stock.” When no one praised his efficiency he returned to his notebook. “Sergeant Hawrentii said the cells are natural caves hidden at the back of a longer tunnel behind the farrier’s paddock. They use the tunnel to store hay but unless there is a prisoner, there is no reason to go further. Both have stout iron doors. Hawrentii couldn’t find the keys so he opened the peep-hole while holding a torch. What he found was a pair of eyes looking back. I’ll spare you his reaction, Sire. He shut the latch and came to me straightaway”

Aragorn finally showed a trace of a smile. Randanold was relieved. His presentation was going smoothly and might offset being caught sleeping by his liege. He would dine on improving versions of this tale for years. The portly gaoler continued, “By chance, Minister Farkess was in my office when the sergeant returned and he saw you within the hour, My Lord.”

Just then, a page approached the King and waited for permission to speak. Once given, the lad said, “Excuse me Sire. Mr. Taal asked me to tell you the scholar knew no colleagues schooled in the old languages but he knows a man of the commercial sector on level three who might serve. Mr. Taal will fetch them here directly.”

This lad did bow correctly and the King kindly nodded his appreciation. They were learning.

Levantos finally spoke, “Did you look at the records, gaoler?”

The stout turnkey replied, “Yes sir. They were filed at the guard station in the tunnel and quite complete. It seems a company of cavalry on patrol along the Mering Stream came across a like-sized party of these creatures. The orcs were armed only with swords. Our men picked them off with arrows and finished the job with their spears. This one was wounded with an arrow in the chest and knocked cold in the melee. Before a trooper could settle him, his Lieutenant told him to stay his hand. These were a new and more vicious breed than they had seen, able to stand in full sun. He was to be kept alive and returned for Lord Denethor’s inspection. Evidently the horses wouldn’t let the creature near so the main company returned here leaving two troopers to lead him roped between their mounts. They arrived five days after the troop on February 4th of last year. He was locked in the far cell awaiting their Lord’s pleasure. There is no record of the Steward ever visiting or it being transported for the Lord’s viewing – and there would have been. There was no record of the prisoner being executed or transferred either. The patrol returned to the frontier. Two months later, the orcs crossed the river and he was forgotten.”

Levantos asked, “How did he survive fifteen months without sustenance?”

Gaoler Randanold was expecting this. “I did some digging, sir. The gaol sergeant had an understanding with the officers' mess that prisoners for these two cells be fed scraps. Kitchen helpers slid leavings under the door until told not to, and they were never told not to. They had no other commerce with detainees. The caves have small rivulets of water seeping through the walls that make their way to drains in the courtyard. It isn’t much, but enough to survive.”

Levantos probed, “When did you fetch him out?” The gaoler noticed the head guardi was neither smiling nor angry; detached was the word for it. Randanold knew of the soldier but hadn’t met him till now; a man to be cultivated. Levantos was a more likely overlord for the prison system than Farkass once the peace was settled. As he said; it pays to take stock.

“Early this morning sir. I went in with four armed men. The smell was overpowering. That cell wasn’t meant for long confinement. The creature hadn’t a stitch on and was covered in filth. Still, he rose without incident and walked with us into the courtyard. He wasn’t presentable to royal persons so we took him to the farrier’s station. There is a water pipe from the cistern for washing horses and equipment. The beast didn’t understand our words to get under the flow but we made dumb-show for him to wash himself. The orc stayed under that freezing water quite a while and emerged as you see.”

All eyes fell on the orc who was intently studying the large, reproduction tapestries of old Numenor on the far wall. He would drift back to the conversation without expression or understanding but didn’t seem ill at ease.

The King asked, “And he cooperated through all this?”

“Not at first, Sire. The prisoner stopped to stare at his reflection in a puddle from the cleansing with a look of astonishment. He stayed long enough that one of my men prodded him in the ribs with his staff to move along. The creature paid him no mind and kept staring until he looked up and asked me something in the same tongue you heard. I waved him to hurry but he looked back at his face. The guard came to give him another reminder. Without looking up from the pool, the prisoner snatched the staff from his hands like it was a willow stalk and smacked the man alongside the head. It happened in the blink of an eye. Then he dropped the stick, made a big, silly grin at his image and hurried along, gentle as a lamb.”

Aragorn asked, “Was the man badly hurt?”

“He was kneeling and cursing as we left. Maedroth had a better look.” Randanold turned to the armed guardi.

In a clear, commanding voice the soldier said, “He’ll have a good scar to remember it, My Lord, but he’ll recover. The prisoner pulled his blow.”

King Elessar asked, “How do you mean?”

“It happened fast, Sire, but this fellow stopped his arm just before impact, like a switching a mule. Had he followed through at speed, he’d have taken Tomag’s head off.”

Levantos thought to himself that Maedroth might have better uses than herding miscreants through prison. He didn't share the gaoler's ambition of adding dungeons to his portfolio. The manager of those dungeons said, “I apologize for his raiment, Sire. Surplus army blouses and trousers were all we could find to fit.” 

The King looked down and saw the creature had no shoes. Those feet would be hard to fit too.

Aragorn asked the gaoler, “You saw him unclothed. Was there any manner of orc about him?”

One of the two young guardi stifled a snort. The King kept his eyes on Randanold and raised an eyebrow.

“He seemed a man in all respects, Sire.” When the King made no motion he added, “Begging your pardon My Lord, we thought he might be popular with the ladies.”

The King’s wan smile returned and left just as quickly when he thought breeding more of these creatures was not in the national interest. “And there were no further problems coming up?”

Ah, coming up. At 41 years old, Randanold was long past fit condition. It would have been unthinkable to hire one of the two-wheeled man-carts to carry him up the switchbacks bringing this dark servant to the King’s justice. No, they trudged the path and used the stair short-cuts like young goats all the way to the seventh level.

Those elevations made Minas Tirith a poor trading hub. It was a fortress – a good one if properly defended. And it was the seat of government. As Sauron's ring gained strength, the city had to serve commercial interests too. Threat ended; men of business would make their fortunes in Osgiliath again. Randanold’s family came from traders but no one objected when he chose public service. It was an honorable or lucrative career, depending on your approach.

“No Sire. We did attract some attention though. Most people have never seen an Elf, or, at least, what I think one would look like. They watched and some waved. He waved back as far as his chains allowed and seemed rather pleased all the while.”

Just then, the double doors opened as a senior attendant showed two men into the room. One was a large, florid fellow with the red cap of a tenured academic. Scholars had the job of cataloging the piles of documents in the catacombs. Language skills were a must. Some were rumored to be searching for the Nuralth, an Elvish document said to include tales from the gods themselves. Publicly they would say it was a fantasy. Privately they would dearly like to be the one who found it. The other man was smaller and darker with more than a drop of Harad or possibly Khandian blood. He wore no cap to cover his shining head.

The King smiled, “Scholar Mendies! It has been too long. May I ask after Mrs. Mendies?”

“She is finally on the mend.” he huffed and bowed. The outsized scholar had climbed two levels himself. “Sire, this is Amiedes Tallazh. He is familiar with several forms of old Elvish and has practical experience with orcish from southern lands.”

“Thank you both for joining us. Please sit down.”

The men sat as they were presented with Tallazh to the King’s right and Scholar Mendies the next chair over.

Aragorn said gravely, “Gentlemen, this is a matter of state security. Let nothing said here today leave this room.” There was no need to outline consequences. King Elessar could be disarming, but there was never a doubt he was born to rule. Leaning over he asked, “Scholar Mendies, would you take notes?”

Mendies quickly produced a bound volume of blank pages and several sharpened pencils from his satchel. The King’s regular secretary was arranging tonight’s events.

“I’ve asked you here because of extraordinary tidings. None of this is yet proven, but we believe this tall, blonde fellow was one of Saruman’s Uruk-hai fighters before the siege. He was imprisoned in solitude for fifteen months and released today as you see.

“This could be a case of mistaken identity, but the creature only speaks what I know to be the black speech of Mordor. He also recognized his white-hand helmet which Gaoler Randanold brought with him. I purpose to ask him what happened and I hope Mr. Tallazh can interpret my questions and his responses. Can you do that, Mr. Tallazh?”

If anyone at the table was expecting the high, sing-song voice of desert lands they were mistaken. Tallazh had a deep, soothing tone that belied his wiry frame. His common Westron tongue hinted a Minas Tirith accent. “I will do my best, My Lord.”

“Then let us begin by learning its name.”

Tallazh turned to the Uruk and asked the question in pigeon orcish. 

At once, the prisoner gave his full attention but did not respond. Tallazh tried again in a simple form of black speech.

The creature looked at him intently and finally uttered, “ ** _Nag Kath, Templagk. Saruman noosch drok._** ”

Tallazh did not preface his responses and repeated the prisoner’s words as closely as he could. As with the best interpreters, he wasn’t there. “His name is Nag Kath. He gave me a rank or title I didn’t recognize. Then he said he was with Saruman’s second legion.”

Realization swept over the table like a wave. It was true. The King looked at the orc and asked in the common tongue, “What happened to you?”

Tallazh converted that to Nag Kath’s language. The creature thought a moment and began, “Attacked by horse warriors. All killed, not me. Brought here to cave.”

His parsed responses were short enough for Tallazh to keep up. This was going better than expected. After another moment of thought, the orc offered, “Three moons. No sun. Count by food. Then … great light. Terrible pain. Woke up later. Eat, sleep, great pain. Two, three days apart. Lost count of time. Maybe ten times ten waking, eat, sleep, pain. All changed. Bone, skin, teeth, hair.” 

The creature looked at a trickle of blood coming from his wrist where the manacles were too tight. “Red blood?” he muttered in a combination of irritation and curiosity.

They let him talk.

“One moon ago, less pain. Small change.”

Ever an excellent listener, the King was about to probe more closely when the prisoner continued, “Think change too. Not Uruk. Can know what I learned. Not why. I should hate you. Not hate. Not fear. Not Uruk think.” Then he fell into silence.

Aragorn saw his opening, “What were you doing at the river?”

This took Tallazh longer to piece-out. Verbs were the problem.

Nag Kath slowly grinned. “I am in trouble! I do not tell, you kill. I tell; Saruman kill. Bad for Nag Kath!” He ended the last phrase with a hearty, un-Elvish laugh.

Levantos had no stomach for humorous orcs. “You don’t seem to mind dying!”

Tallazh made of that what he could. The orc sat back in his chair and rubbed his beardless chin the same way Aragorn did. “I was slave. Then locked in cave of pain. How bad is death?”

That brought everyone up short.

Aragorn leaned forward and played his cards, “Saruman is dead. Sauron is dead. All orcs and trolls are dead.” pausing to give Tallazh time to emphasize each sentence.

“ ** _Uruk-hai?_** ”

The King didn’t wait for the translation. “All dead.”

The Uruk repeated the King’s words perfectly. "All dead." He counted on his fingers and continued, “I tell. Two ten-by-ten (200) Uruk sent to find little men.” He leveled his hand to the height of a Halfling. “Main troop to Rauros. Fast 25, me, fast Uruks go to Gondor – if little men turn, come here.”

Tallazh took several tries refining the last sentence giving the rest of the room time to realize these were the monsters sent to murder their Lord. This would not last long.

Without prodding, Nag Kath added, “Warags faster but kill all. Lurtz say bring alive.” He blinked as he remembered and kept going, “Stay until catch or go Isengard one moon. Must wait and hunt food.”

Aragorn had warmed to the chase, “Did you catch them?”

“No, there two days, killed by horse warriors.” He brightened cheerfully and said in the common tongue, “All dead.”

The men around the table all had a thousand questions. This creature had sorcerously changed from the worst form of life to the highest when all the rest of his kind died at Helm's Deep. Tallazh turned to the King, “With your leave, Sire, this creature is not speaking orcish. It’s a purer version of the black speech. And he can count. Might asking him about his army position tell us more of his purpose?”

Still looking at the Uruk, Aragorn nodded. Tallazh glanced at the Scholar's notes and asked, “What is a Templagk?”

“Take orders … messages to commanders. Must be as they say. Crebains (trained crows) can not remember. We are fast Uruks. Only 19. Other Uruks, spawned ten by tens. We taller, thinner, fast running. Commanders do not trust each other. We remember what they say. We have toglakz!”

“Toglakz?”

“Medal. Says to do. Proves we are Templagk.”

Tallazh hadn’t interpreted this verbatim as it came too quickly. He summarized, “It seems Nag Kath is a staff messenger. He delivers orders or messages from company commanders who can’t trust each other to stand by what they’ve said. There were only 19 of them while the other Uruks were made in their hundreds.”

While Tallazh crafted his version, Nag Kath reached down for the burlap sack and set it on the table with a dull clank. First he pulled out his helmet and set it aside. The next item nearly got him killed. It was an Uruk sword, a hideous, straight-bladed weapon tipped with a horse-gutting barb. He noisily dropped that on the table as well.

Levantos had already pulled his throwing knife but Randanold was in the way. He was sure his lord was gripping the same dagger that helped send this orc’s captain to hell. The palace guard directly behind the orc couldn’t see his hands and the other was too far away for an instant sword stroke. Only Randanold did anything above table level, pulling the slack from his leather lead to the orc’s chains to keep him from lunging at the King or throwing the weapon. That wouldn’t save the Gaoler though. When Levantos thought about it later, he was much more impressed by that than the fat man's literacy.

The sword wasn’t what he wanted. Nag Kath rummaged in the sack and produced a copper medallion about two inches in diameter with rough runes stamped on one side and a lanyard hole at the top. He made a low, guttural growl of satisfaction and tossed it to Tallazh. “ ** _Templagk!_** ”

As the first moment of panic faded, the orc caused a new horror when it picked up the sword and straightened a pronounced bow by pressing down with the flat of his hand before putting it back in the sack. Randanold ended the crisis by handing the bag to the guard behind him. 

Letting out his breath, the King sighed, “I think that’s as much as we can do for now. Mr. Randanold, please release the prisoner to my custody. You and your men may return to your posts with my thanks.” 

The portly gaoler took the orc to a small service table and wrenched the bolts off the manacles. Then he and his guards bowed to their lord and made peace with not getting free ale with their early supper.

Aragorn turned to his own guards and instructed, “Take him to the guest quarters on the sixth and put a sentry on the door. Feed him, but no contact with anyone but Minister Levantos’ men. Bring him back at the eleven-bell tomorrow. The guards nodded and pointed the way for the strange creature. Mr. Tallazh, I’d like you back here then also. Scholar Mendies please make me one copy of your report and burn your notes. This fellow doesn’t look like he’s from the pits of Isengard, but let us keep that to ourselves for now.” 

The academics rose, bowed and left the King with his security chief just as yesterday.

“What do you think Altides?”

“I am deeply sorry for the sword, your Highness. I …”

“We are soldiers. It was nothing. Now; what of the creature?”

Levantos lost a brother at Morannon. He had no reason to be kindly, “I don’t know what to make of him. There is probably great potential for evil, but doesn’t seem very orcish now."

The King mused, “I’m of two minds. What he knows about the military operations of our worst enemy could be priceless if more of them survived elsewhere. Whatever we must do, this creature is to all eyes an Elf. I want their counsel before I make any decisions.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow at eleven, Sire.”

Aragorn leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. One could never be entirely rid of sorcery but was this for good or ill? It would have to wait. He rang a small bell placed nearer the center of the table and a page instantly appeared.

“Ask Ambassador Elendrie if he could please meet me here tomorrow at the eleven-bell. Say it’s a sensitive matter concerning his people.”

The page repeated it back word-for-word and excused himself correctly.


	2. The Long Night of Evard Londigal

**Chapter 2**

**The Long Night of Evard Londigal**

The King and Queen reserved the entire evening for the Catanard, a performance of traditional Gondoran song and acting, sung in most taverns in Belfalas. This was the height of the craft by acclaimed players of Dol Amroth. Southern Gondorans revered them as national treasures. Northern citizens were less impressed. Dwarves came for the ale. Lady Arwen would be the only Elf present as the others still in the city attended pressing duties. A less cultured audience would have sung along and leered at the Eldar (Elves) to join the fun. Catanard was an acquired taste. Aragorn liked the rustic opera and felt it was good for his people to take their minds away from lifetime horrors. More importantly, this was the first post-war celebration of scale. Gondor needed to look forward.

The performance was well received and attended. The throne room doubled as the theater. A low stage was erected in front of the actual throne which was hidden by the painted backdrop for the performance. The King and Queen sat in ordinary chairs in the front just off the wide center aisle. They would leave first as the rows emptied from front to back.

The closing song received a heartening round of applause. Players scurried to the receiving line thanking guests and arranging private concerts in prominent homes. Ever radiant, Queen Arwen smiled and nodded to her growing number of acquaintances as they made their way down the aisle. King Elessar held her hand in high courtly fashion and did the same. 

Nearing their private apartments, the King stopped in his tracks. The Uruk changeling was standing in the throng, a head taller than native Gondorans. Aragorn thought he saw a tear in the monster’s eye. When he felt the King’s gaze, the orc turned slightly and did a creditable bow copied from the gaoler. He also broke into his decidedly un-Elvish grin.

Aragorn caught the attention of Levantos’ third in command standing by a column. Evard Londigal was a tall, handsome fellow – perfect for looking over a crowd. The man married well above his station for love and rose through his wife’s connections. Somewhat unusually, he was excellent at his job. His last promotion was on merit. Londigal covered the ground in no time. The King said quietly while maintaining his public smile, “This Elf is supposed to be under lock and key in the guest quarters downstairs. Would you take him back and make sure he stays there?” As Londigal nodded and turned to the offender, his Liege added, “Nag Kath speaks none of our tongue.”

The tall Guardi assessed the situation. The Elf was taller by at least two inches, with broader shoulders, although it is hard to tell what Elves actually weigh. The King relieved any tension by smiling with outsized hand gestures and saying in soothing tones that the Elf was to follow this man. Londigal took his cue, grinned as his Lord had done and pointed towards a cove leading to the nearest staircase. By the time they were gone, the King and Queen had resumed thanking citizens for a lovely evening. Nearing the end of the gauntlet, Arwen asked without betraying her public face, “And who was that?”

The King nodded to another dignitary and replied softly, “That is the Uruk.”

His lady smiled slightly, “Pale for an orc. You must tell me more.” Attendants opened the doors to their private quarters and they passed in as elegantly as their progress through the subjects. Arwen had thousands of years of patience. She saw her beloved husband had the situation under control and gently asked, “Was that why you were so quiet tonight?”

“Yes. I would have told you sooner but you’d only just arrived from the house of healing. It was an interesting afternoon – to put it mildly.”

Arwen knew the conversation would flow of its own accord so she poured two goblets of wine and gave him one. He took the drink and said, “The short story is; he was one of Saruman’s Uruk-hai imprisoned in a cave on the second level, fed but forgotten. When he was accidentally remembered, that’s what walked out the door this morning. He speaks only the black-tongue, has a charming sense of humor and I have no idea what to do with him. Tomorrow morning I’ve asked Lord Elendrie for his counsel. Like it or not, he’s more Elf than anything else so I want his advice on the creature's fate."

“I didn’t know you spoke black speech.”

“Mendies knew an interpreter who did an excellent job getting him to answer my questions and those of Levantos.”

Arwen was glad of Levantos. Her Lord was safer with him close. Aragorn was unequalled as a man of valor but he would not get a straight fight here. He would also have to learn to say ‘no’ and let his ministers carry more of the load. The King knew that too and had gotten through this first terrible year well positioned for the next.

“May I come too?”

Not really a request, but she was quite correct. Her family’s experience with the dark lord’s servants was vast. Was he a fell Elf of yore? If there was evil in the creature, she would find it.

“Thank you, my dear. I will escort you there at eleven.”

___________-----___________

Evard Londigal’s evening was just starting. He babbled a friendly stream of nonsense to the big detainee and gently steered him down the stairs to the sixth level. They were still some distance from the guest quarters so he kept the initiative. Nag Kath slowed and pointed to a tapestry between doors in a hallway asking, “ ** _Doosh findamgul nockte fiel_**?” Londigal knew the harsh sounds of the enemy. This was a dangerous fellow. 

Hoping his common banter would serve; the officer offered a thumbnail summary of the doomed lovers Lúthien and Beren. It was not the scene portrayed at all, but it was one of the few stories he knew. Nag Kath was rapt. He looked at Evard, back to the weaving, back to Evard and offered a long, “Ohhhh”. 

Did he understand? The Elf (the King hadn’t mentioned he was an orc) looked content and followed the rest of the way without missing a step. They arrived at the block of guest quarters reserved for ranking state visitors. King Aragorn chose it because it was mostly empty. Business travelers stayed nearer the trading and permit offices these days.

At the door of one apartment, a palace sentry stood fully alert. When he saw the commander of his own company walking with the man he was supposed to be guarding, he straightened and saluted sharply. Londigal’s demeanor never changed from hale-fellow-well-met, thinking that roasting the guard might upset his charge. Using the same friendly tone as the King, he soothed, “At ease soldier. Should this fellow be in that room?”

The guard croaked in the affirmative.

“Why don’t we make sure it’s comfortable?”

The guard pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. All three wandered inside. It was a nice place … too nice. Most apartments had a single entry door but this one also had servants’ quarters that led to a supply corridor out of view from the main hall. No reason to make guests use the same door as the groceries. His wife explained such things. He nodded to the guard who checked the delivery door and it swung wide open, key still in the lock. Londigal locked it and handed the key to the guard. Then he pointed at the floor to Nag Kath as if training a retriever to stay. It worked and the two security men walked out, locking the main door behind them.

The guard started a profuse apology but Londigal cut him short. He kindly asked if the man was assigned to not let anyone leave through that door. The guard nodded. “Well then, please continue to do so and have the relief man do the same.”

Realizing he had dodged a reprimand, the guard started breathing again. Londigal walked around to the service door and followed the hall to the catering kitchen. Hours before, this had been a madhouse preparing viands for the concert patrons. Regardless of their social position, Gondorans will strip a banquet table like locusts. He entered the kitchen and found three scullery maids cleaning and preparing for tomorrow. “Good evening, ladies. Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for a queer Elf who might have come this way; tall, no shoes, easy on the eyes.”

The largest and least romantically impressionable of the three said, “He was here around the five-bell ... charmed Denelle out of a potato and headed for the Provin Gallery. 

“You must be Denelle” addressed to a rather pretty girl ready to swoon before her second handsome man this night. Such men were rare in the service kitchen.

“Yes, if it please your lordship.”

“Oh, I’m no lord … but I hope you can help me. Did my friend say anything of his plans?”

“No sir. He didn’t say nothing at all. He just wandered over to the potato bin and took one off the top. I didn’t say nothing, him so big and all."

“I’m sure you’re in no trouble” – this as much a warning to the matron as comfort for the maid. “Should he wander through again, I hope you’ll tell one of the palace guards so we can let him know he’s wanted.”

With a wave, Londigal made his way to the gallery. This was the largest room on the sixth level. Cut lower into the rock than the surrounding buildings, it featured a magnificent ceiling with real glass windows along the north face.

The Provin housed the historical art of Gondor. Truly fine and expensive pieces were kept secure in smaller quarters on the seventh level but this series of rooms displayed the large paintings, tapestries and sculptures of past glories. Denelle’s cooking would have come here as the higher classes of the White City socialized before the Catanard. This was the perfect place to see and be seen before walking upstairs.

Minas Tirith’s throne room had only one entrance on the short ends but there were several smaller chambers along one of the long edges that each led into the vast hall. Londigal’s ears pricked at a soft sound to his left. Quiet for a tall man, he crept close to find an elderly fellow snoozing in an oversized chair. The officer would have let him doze but he still needed to trace the Elf’s route so he gently touched the man’s hand. 

The old boy woke without alarm. This had happened before. In the dim light Londigal recognized him as Tyras Borothar. He was somehow connected to his wife’s father’s business. 

“Why Mr. Borothar, I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s Evard Londigal, Sophiel’s husband." Mr. Borothar couldn’t place him in that light but he was a friendly old cove and always nice to well-mannered gentlemen.

Shaking off the sleep, the codger said, “Please don’t hold yourself to blame young man. I punished the wine a little much at the gallery and missed the Catanard. That is my loss.”

“Ah, then you may have seen my charge. Afraid I’ve lost the fellow; tall, barefoot Elf.”

“Oh yes. He was in the gallery the whole time I was. Eating a turnip, I think. Everyone noticed him. He stared at each exhibit like he was memorizing it. Some of our recent widows tried to distract him but got nothing for their pains. Tarts, I say!”

“That must be the one.”

“He followed us up to the performance. That’s the last I saw of him.”

Evard said as if it was of little consequence, “Well, I’m sure he’ll turn-up. Let us find you a proper bed, sir.”

“My proper bed is at my daughter’s apartment on the fifth level. I’m afraid my wife will rake me over the coals for my inattention.”

“I expect you’ve survived that before.” Londigal added with a genuine chuckle, “We’ll say you’ve been assisting me in my inquiries for the King. It’s true, and it should buy you a little grace from your females!”

“Quite right! What did you say your name was again?”

___________-----___________

With Mr. Borothar reinstalled in the bosom of his family, Londigal made for the royal suite. The guards posted outside turned an urn by the door to one side when the couple had retired and were not to be disturbed. The urn was in its daytime position. Londigal was a high superior to these men and could have insisted they wake their Highnesses but this was not important or necessary.

“Evening, Bestimus.”

“Sir.”

“His Lordship is expecting me.”

The senior guard knocked and opened the door without going in. Londigal entered and found both royals reading by a pair of oil lamps.

Aragorn looked up to say, “Ah, Londigal, have you solved the puzzle?”

“Yes Sire. At least, I have an interesting tale.”

Her Ladyship joined, “Would you like wine?”

“No thank you, My Lady. It’s been a long day.” They knew that. Usually in charge of the day shift, he had pulled double duty to cover the first exposed event since their marriage.

“Have a seat.”

“Thank you, Sire. It begins with our guest wandering out the servant’s entrance. When he was locked in the room they must not have checked the back door. The guard in the hall was wide awake making sure nobody left an empty room.” This escape was on Londigal’s watch, even if indirectly. When the King shrugged, it was water over the dam. 

“From there he borrowed a potato from a scullery maid and made his way to the Provin, stayed there two hours, carefully examining every work in the place. I found old Borothar sleeping in a waiting room, avoiding his wife. He gave me all the details.

“Then the fellow followed the crowd up to the Catanard for a taste of Southern Gondor’s culture." Turning to the Queen he added, "I hope My Lady enjoyed the players.”

“I believe it is similar to some of my peoples’ historical pageants.”

Ouuu! That could be construed a thousand ways. Londigal chose not to construe it at all. His two little girls slept safe in their bed because this man and woman saved Gondor from much worse horrors than provincial theater.

“If your Highnesses will excuse me, I should say goodnight.”

“Thank you Evard.”

“My pleasure, Sire.”


	3. Trial for Live

**Chapter 3**

**Trial for Life**

The second interrogation of the orc/Elf was to be in one of the justice rooms off the main hall. Palaces and huts alike kept daytime business near windows. This room had two which could not be accessed from outside. The table for judges and Magisters sat on a dais looking towards the long end of the room. A longer, lower table abutted it in the center to seat defendants or those settling disputes. Opposing parties sat to either side. Men experienced in these matters built that table wider than a punch could reach.

By quarter to eleven, Minister Levantos was already sitting at the long table near the judges’ bench where he could watch the only door. It was open with one of his men to either side. The minister heard his guards click to attention and looked up to see Ambassador Elendrie gaze around the room as he walked in. Levantos marveled at how Elvish eyes adjust instantly to different light.

“Good morning Ambassador.”

“Ah, good morning Minister. Another pleasant day.”

Elendrie was as artists of old drew Elvish nobles; tall, chiseled, immaculately dressed in clothes that repelled the stains mortal men could not avoid. Levantos had never seen an Elf before he was a man-grown and this one did not disappoint. The Minister thought he might have a better sense of humor than the few other Elves in his acquaintance; a strength in diplomacy.

The ambassador turned to the guardi and observed, “I’ve never been in this room before. It is used for judgment?”

“Yes, and for resolving disputes. It is a court of law for those accused of transgressions but it also serves for men claiming harm in common practice or business.”

That the Ambassador asked and listened was another plus. Elves had long ago learned to settle differences more elegantly. But men with some learning knew Elves had been foolish, proud and bloody in their long civil wars. When Elvish peoples withdrew from Middle-Earth, both of them thought men would make the same mistakes.

Elendrie asked, “Minister, do you know how many people will join us? This is something of a mystery to me.”

“I think only half a dozen, sir. This will not be an official proceeding.”

“Then I shall make myself at home.” He sat across from the Minister further towards the end of the long table.

Neither of them saw the need to say anything in the few minutes before the King and Queen entered. The Minister and Ambassador stood and bowed. Their Highnesses returned the honor. After they found their places at the judges’ bench Elessar said, “Thank you for coming, Ambassador. I know you are busy.”

Elendrie continued his part of the formal greeting, “I am at your service, My Lord and Lady. It seems this question has a little of everything.”

Liveried servants brought pitchers of cool tea, pouring mugs for the four and placing the pitchers and more cups on the table. They were out as quickly, leaving a senior attendant by the door.

King Elessar began, “I agree, and thank you again for your long walk. A most extraordinary thing has happened. Our cavalry captured one of Saruman’s orcs near Rohan just before the war. He was brought here for Lord Denethor’s inspection. That never happened and he was forgotten in a cell until yesterday morning. He only speaks the black tongue.

“By craft unknown to us, he survived the destruction of the One Ring. And not only that, he transformed into something unique. Last night he wandered away from his lodgings to visit the gallery and attend the Catanard.”

The ambassador smiled. “Not normal orcish entertainments, King Elessar. I hope no one was injured.” Affairs of state kept him from an evening of Gondoran culture. Some nuance, some aspect of the Lady’s face undetectable by any but other Elves told Elendrie everything to be known about the Queen’s devotion to the music of her new people.

The King continued, “A perfect gentleman, thankfully, but I don’t know what to make of him and felt need of your counsel.”

Elendrie arched an eyebrow – a sweeping gesture in Elvish expressions. “I am glad to do whatever I can. My Lady, is this new to you as well?”

“It is, my Lord, new to all of us.”

Asking that of a human woman would have been unthinkable – as unthinkable as one attending kingly councils in the first place. But Arwen was a high Elf of considerable experience and wisdom, older than Elendrie. She would ally herself with her husband but she was there for a reason and the Quendu (male Elf) would watch for hints closely.

Aragorn turned to the attendant and said, “Please bring in Mr. Tallazh and the prisoner.”

Soundlessly, the man opened the door and gestured to a brace of guards in the corridor. Then he stood back as two guards positioned themselves in front of the royal couple. Next in was an olive-skinned merchant holding a folio. He was followed by a tall, pale man crowned with a confusion of short, thick blonde hair. Two more guards trailed behind and closed the door.

The blonde and dark men were positioned about the middle of the long table just past Levantos who had chosen his seat deliberately. The first guards stepped back to the wall. None of the four palace men had shown a glint of steel but there was no doubt they would use it. Before sitting, the prisoner leaned over the table and looked intently at Elendrie. Cracking a toothy grin he said, " ** _Nel pusht de meh!"_** in delight.

The King let that pass long enough to introduce Nag Kath and Mr. Tallazh the interpreter. Tallazh was asked to take notes as well. The dark man nodded to the Ambassador and Levantos with deference before helping himself to tea.

Aragorn asked, “What did he say?”

Tallazh interpreted, “He said to Ambassador Elendrie; ‘You are like me!’”

Curious, the ambassador mused, “Tell him I have been like this for many years.” And to the King; “I see your concern.” Tallazh did as asked.

Nag Kath ran his long fingers through the tousled hair past his Elvish ears as he considered the news. Elendrie own ears were already showing thanks to a modest silver circlet around his long, light brown hair, in keeping with a royal summons.

From nowhere the blonde said, “ ** _Douel kan ishte._** ” Then I may live.

The others considered this for a moment in silence. To get the conversation moving, the King asked through Tallazh, “We understand you went to see our paintings and sculpture.”

This took Tallazh some time. In the abridged black speech of dark minions there was no art. He had to describe them in orcish terms with hand gestures. For his part, Nag Kath listened intently. When he understood he offered, “Uruk do not have this.”

The diplomat asked, “What did you think?”

That took less time to translate but the orc/Elf needed longer to form a response, “Pressure here” lightly thumping his chest. “No Uruk feel. We know fear and strength. No feel ...” looking at a nearby painting, "that."

Tallazh offered, “If I may, I make that to say it found an emotion they do not know or are not permitted to express.”

While the interpreter parsed through his response, Nag Kath kept his gaze on a large painting of Turambar, ninth king of Gondor, greeting notables in the formalized style of the era. Next to him was his queen, Nepthat. She was exquisite, probably more on canvas than in life. That the artist capturing her so favorably while commemorating a forgotten conference was what made art immortal. Nag Kath was rapt, drinking in every nuance of her face.

Elendrie wanted to stay on this line and asked, "Do your people have art?" knowing full-well they did not.

Tallazh's translation brought the creature back to the present and he frowned, "No. Uruk only do what must. Only as well as must. Who make this … " pointing to the painting, "… does as well as can for no reason. Must feel here." He thumped at his chest again.

The Queen said levelly, “And you heard music, too." Levantos bit his lip and, like Londigal, wondered how many ways that could be interpreted.

Tallazh tried that with more success. Nag Kath opened his mouth with a low singing tone that surprised everyone by its volume and clarity – more or less on pitch with the male villain’s solo in the pageant. The men present were more impressed than the Elves who found orcish opera as grating as the original.

“Mu … sic?” he aped the queen’s word in passable common speech. Possibly a question? Perhaps only mimicry.

“Music, yes. Tales of great deeds.” Tallazh answered in the black speech.

Aragorn remembered him fixed on the stage and crying.

Nag Kath did not understand he was there to answer to the lords’ inquest. Why would he? None of them had a whip. As those seated were still digesting his artistic turn, he said with a hint of bitterness, "Can mu-sic. Can not speak Uruk. New mouth. New teeth. Not Uruk!”

The King alone among them had seen, and been bitten by, Uruk teeth. Whatever this creature was now, his perfect white smile was an improvement. The changeling was actually quite a specimen, but the pretty face didn’t fit his strapping body. He seemed only in his teens as Elves age.

Nag Kath asked more loudly of the room, “What am I?”

The mood shifted back to their purpose. This was a trial for the creature’s life. Levantos listened to Tallazh's rendering and finally spoke, “That is what we are here to discover.” 

The King’s minister was here for a reason too. A hundred thousand of Sauron’s servants were destroyed within hours of their master. Orcs, trolls, fell beasts – all but the smaller wolves and the poor Mûmikil Farkess' men were retraining to pull the pile driver. Any creatures modified by darkness died. Sauron's human allies were unaffected but on the run. And this one! Was he here for a reason or by accident? And how had he survived the Army of the Dead? He was no pretty Elf then. They should have slain him just as surely as the rest, weeks before the Black Gate. The Dead Army followed the orcs to the third level, one above where this monster was stored. They must have seen him.

More to the judges than the prisoner, King Elessar said, “That is the question … and what to do with him. For my part, I suspect some sorcery preserved this yrch. If the legends are true, the orcs were wrought from tortured Elves thousands of years ago. With Morgoth and Sauron finally destroyed, could he have reverted to his original form?”

Arwen was long familiar with the ways of orcs and not charitably disposed. Her own mother had been captured and tortured by them five hundred years before. Brothers Elladan and Elrohir rescued her before death but could not save her spirit. In despondency and confusion she sailed to Valinor, the Elvish paradise, the following year. 

The Queen guided the conversation, “My Lord Elendrie, the King told me that in his first interrogation of this creature (she had not warmed to orcs with names) was discussed its manner of transformation. It claimed there was fell light and sound at the time we know Sauron’s ring was unmade. The change took over a year in darkness, unseen by our eyes.”

Leaning back and moving her eyes across the faces, “Let us not forget that Sauron took form as Annatar, a beautiful Elf, while sowing lies and deceit to the destruction of Numenor and many Elvish kingdoms. Might the dark lord have escaped his doom again ere Mordor fell? His craft has long been to put us at ease, spinning false webs as he regains strength.” Aragorn hadn’t considered that. At bottom, he was a trusting man. The wicked stood out plainly in his world. 

Ever the ambassador, Elendrie asked Nag Kath in soft tones, “What would you like to do?”

Tallazh had to reframe that one. Uruks don’t like anything and what they wanted didn’t matter. When he got the message across, Nag Kath brightened and said,

“I mu-sic. I art. If I live, I mu-sic my own tale!” That brought out his brightest and least Elvish grin yet.

Arwen was not charmed, “You said before you may live. Why?” Did the monster know it was here for the justice of eight thousand years?

Tallazh followed the answer as best he could, “Uruk made full, big.” The orc/Elf used his arms to emphasize his size which was taller than all but the tallest Elves and slightly wider across. “But only live six years. Little orcs live long. Uruks no. Yet he lives long," nodding towards the unnamed ambassador.

Arwen’s tone was relentless, “How old are you?”

Nag Kath asked Tallazh the month and was told the Black version of May. The creature did the arithmetic on his fingers, “In cave for … fifteen moons. I am two cycles old next moon.”

The Lady's expression became a combination of surprise and understanding, “By Eru Ilúvatar, he is an infant among our peoples.”

Elendrie offered in Sindarin (common Elvish), “That would explain his wonder at new things before him.”

Nag Kath snapped his head to the ambassador. There was something in the cadence or sound that was closer to his tongue than they had considered. He said softly to no one in particular with Tallazh translating, “I do not think you will kill me.”

So he did know. Levantos took the bait, “Why not?”

“Who can make art, mu-sic …” turning towards Queen Nepthat’s lasting beauty, “… would not let me suffer so long just to kill.”

Everyone sitting at the table asked themselves if he was right. King Elessar Telcontar called the vote. “Ambassador Elendrie, I asked you here because this creature is closer to an Elf in appearance than man or orc. Your judgment informs us all.”

Elendrie leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, “I agree this raises more questions than answers. This being has no place among my people. We are leaving these shores and Valinor is not ready for him. That said; I can have no objection if he learns how to paint.”

There was the humor Levantos suspected. Now it was his turn. “My Lords and Lady, when heard an orc survived our dungeon, I’d have his head on a spear. It would put paid to the last known enemy of our age. I am less sure now and will abide with any decision you make, Sire"

The King glanced next to him. Lady Arwen knew she had lost, for now. “It will have to be watched.” She already knew her husband would spare the monster if it did not fail being put to the question today. His compassion was why she loved him. And he’d made a good point the night before that this creature seemed ready to describe the military and organizational ken of dark armies; things that would have helped them greatly last year and for a hundred generations of men before. This vile changeling could disappear any time after cooperating.

King Elessar Telcontar concluded, “Ambassador Elendrie, thank you for your care. I will let you know my decision. Altides, thank you as well.” The royal couple rose together and all stood and bowed. Aragorn held her hand and murmured, “Thank you, my dear. I am always in hope when you are near.”

She walked out with Elendrie, an old friend. Aragorn was right that he represent the Elves in what, dare she admit it, looked like an Elvish matter. Still at the pinnacle of her grace, her lot was now cast with the younger races. Better to make a clean break and let her people be served by one unquestionably of them. Elendrie also had some talent in her grandmother Galadriel’s ósanwe or far-speaking, the ability to enter another's mind. He was not as pure or strong as her, but he could convey basic messages to both Galadriel and Arwen’s father, Elrond. 

Glorfindel, mightiest warrior of the Elves in Middle-earth, had been the ranking Eldar in Minas Tirith until he left for Lorien two months before. If his plans held, he would stay the winter and then travel with Arwen’s grandparents and a goodly number of her people through Rivendell next summer to join Elrond and make for the Grey Havens, northern harbor of Elfkind. Yes, the Elves were leaving Middle-Earth. They would shepherd men until the last.

The King said to the guards, “Take the prisoner back to his quarters and keep watch as before."

Tallazh planned to follow the guards surrounding the remarkable creature until his liege asked, "Mr. Tallazh, would you stay a moment?"

___________-----___________

Tallazh was tempted to sit back down but one did not just make himself at home with one’s King. Aragorn turned over his shoulder and asked the door attendant, “Please send in Mr. Gantellus.”

Amarr Gantellus must have been just outside and appeared instantly with a bow and a smile. He had been the personal handman (valet) of Steward Denethor for eight years and was enjoying the change of scenery. Unlike many on the seventh level, the servant was not cut from military cloth. Short, round, bald as an onion, he knew everything about serving the man in charge, the perfect gentleman's gentleman. He could assess moods precisely. And he could find anything – for a modest honorarium.

The King had reservations about retaining someone so close to the unlamented Steward, but many of the people he was learning to respect liked Gantellus, whose role in most courts accumulated enemies. There wasn't a political bone in his body. Lady Arwen tipped the scale by noting, quite rightly, that the King's Arnoran rangers might be a little rough for protocol.

“Yes, Sire?”

“I have a queer errand. Do you know of someone who teaches art; painting, sculpture and such craft?” Noticing Tallazh standing tentatively by his chair, the King motioned for him to sit.

“I do, my Lord, several. Or I did. I’ve heard naught since the war.”

“I’m looking for someone who might have a school where those wishing to learn would have room and board.”

“That narrows the list, Sire. Mr. Quastille has, or had, such an establishment on the second level. He would be elderly now and was assisted by a spinster daughter. I can inquire if he is still in such employ.”

“Quastille? Didn’t he paint the little mural outside the foyer?

"Some years back, My Lord."

"Yes, please do.”

With a wink, Gantellus added, “Cook has made cobbler with the first Lebennin cherries. It’s still warm.” He would bring a second piece for his Lord's guest.

The King rounded the dais and sat next to said guest. He poured a fresh mug of tea from the pitcher and refilled Tallazh's mug. "I've taken a gamble. You can help me level the odds. But first, tell me how came you to know ancient tongues?"

"It is the story of my life, Sire," Tallazh answered with a smile. Both men understood the question was why he knew so much about the evil ones. The rest were buried in pits as far as they could be dragged from the city.

Tallazh decided the long story wouldn't leave suspicious gaps so he started with, "My father was in business with his two older brothers trading goods with foreign lands. Like every boy in the family, I was taught to read and write and was later put to work learning everything there was to know about our trade. After a few years, my duties included transporting wares to, from or across Elvish lands. Languages came easily to me and I learned enough Sindarin to be useful. The Elves all spoke the common tongue, of course, but understanding what they said among themselves never hurt in setting the right price."

Tallazh paused long enough to give the King a chance to react. The ranger/warrior might not be a businessman. A smile or frown would shape the narrative. Aragorn's face betrayed nothing so the merchant continued. "I was the third son of a third son and the business was getting crowded with ambitious cousins. Knowing my gift of tongues, my father, a dear man, offered to send me to the House of Scholars, as it was called in those days. I was accepted and assigned to Scholar Vorondies, a terrible old pedant, but the authority on languages no one spoke anymore. Most were Elvish in origin, including the Black Speech which was of keen interest to him. I studied them for three years and learned how they formed the languages used today. When I was twenty, the Denald fever reduced the count of cousins considerably and my father asked me to rejoin the firm in a senior position."

King Elessar interrupted, "That must have been a terrible blow after all your hard work."

"To tell the truth, My Lord, I was bored with scholarship and Scholars. Please don't tell Mendies," he added conspiratorially. "Our times there overlapped and we've been friends since. I'd been back about a year when one of our suppliers on the border of neutral Harondor offered to sell us his business. It was a splendid opportunity but nobody volunteered to go – the middle of nowhere and too close to Harad. The Southrons were fairly accommodative at the time. My father’s people came from Khand and I spoke a little of that too. Being unmarried was the short straw and I was sent to Transagri to bring our new enterprise into the fold.

"I was there three years. Most of the goods were destined for Gondor but there was local trade too. Not long after I arrived we started seeing small caravans of half-orcs taking selected items east. It seems some of the higher villains had a taste for nice things. A vile and vulgar lot – but they paid cash, generally behaved themselves and the city fathers made them check their weapons at the gate. None of them expected us to speak any of their language either. Like in the Elvish towns, feigning ignorance was often helpful. They spoke Plainstongue to us but frequently broke into vicious arguments among themselves in orcish over prices and quality. I also wanted to know if they meant violence.

"My Lord, that was when I learned how the simpler creatures of the dark lands adapted the ancient Elvish to their purpose. They use less than half the words in the wrong order. That's why this Kath fellow was so interesting. His tongue was closer to Vorondies’ understanding than the rough lads of the south. I made bold to ask about his rank thinking he might be an officer. I'm sorry about the sword."

His Liege smiled, "Not as sorry as Levantos." 

"About then, Hûk Boulu conquered Upper Harondor and it was time to come home in a hurry. I married well, had a son and two daughters and count myself fortunate. Now that the threat of Mordor is gone, the family is moving most of our trade to Osgiliath. I chose to stay here to handle our business with the crown and gradually retire. My wife and son are both gone, weak hearts, I grieve. My daughters have families of their own. I spend more time entertaining my grandchildren than I do at work.

"And that, Sire, is my tale, other than to thank you for bringing lordship to these lands."

"Thank you, Mr. Tallazh. Would you be interested in discreet side-work?"

"What manner of work, may I ask?" A cautious man. 

"Nothing strenuous. This creature may be the only one of his kind. There may also be legions of original orcs in the dark places beneath the mountains ... the northern wastes too. We have never had a look into how they make war; logistics, supply, where they come from and how fast. This fellow seems glad to help. 

"I would like you to tutor him in our speech and such things. Extract from him everything he knows about how evil forces prepare to fight: positions, formations, communications … sorcery … everything."

"Gladly, my lord."

Aragorn nodded before saying, "What would you want in exchange for this important service?"

"Nothing Sire. As I said, I count myself fortunate."

"Thank you. Lieutenant Koos will be in touch."


	4. Of Use

**_Chapter 4_ **

**_Of Use_ **

Quastille had a second helping of the morning porridge. He didn’t much care for oats but these were not times to waste food. His daughter kept it warm just in case. Sylveth was now just over forty, a sweet girl but not comely. Suitors who had considered a match were long gone. She seemed to take it well but her da pained for her true heart. 

A dowry would have helped. Edem Quastille had never been good with money. His wife managed the books better but the Denald fever after the floods had taken her along with so many others. Sylveth was only nine. Their income depended on people of means sending pupils to learn at his feet, a fickle business; that. Some young men were actually talented. Some worked hard. Some were there because his tuition was cheaper than letting them ruin the family business. 

He did own the rooms outright – an inheritance from his wife’s side of the family. Their apartment was on the third floor. The studio was on the second. If times had gotten slightly worse he would have converted it to a paying apartment by installing a door. Students were housed on the first floor. There had been as many as a half-dozen in halcyon days. There were two now. One lad showed promise. The other had some natural talent too but his lack of ambition was the reason his family chose his further education away from their granary on the Anduin.

No sooner had Quastille finished than they heard a knock on the door. Peeping through the hole revealed a tall fellow in palace livery. Quastille’s first instinct was that a creditor had lost patience. No, he was current, but it had happened enough that his mind ran back to leaner times. And besides, this fellow was too well turned-out to be a bill collector.

He opened the door, “How may I help you, sir?”

“I am Fidelar Koos, sir. I’ve come to ask about your teaching program.”

“Please come in.” Sylveth went to see if there was enough of the fire left to heat tea.

“Have a seat, Mr. Koos. We’ve never had a member of the palace staff as a student.”

“Thank you. I’m not here for myself, Mr. Quastille. I’m making inquiries for a gentleman who would like to encourage an aspiring artist.”

The artist chuckled to himself. Wonder what the poor fellow did? Families from the fifth level often sent third-parties to negotiate. Aspiring? He would see. Not that it mattered. He would teach them to finger-paint as long as their coin was bright. Quastille himself was a fine artist and sculptor, taught by Lentillar himself! Did he not have a mural on the seventh level? “What can I tell you of my humble office?” The game had begun.

Koos said earnestly, “Well, sir, I am told the student is a visitor from northern lands in the uniting of Gondor and Arnor. He is young and speaks little of the common tongue. His family wishes him to learn the art and culture of the capital at a school with room and board. He is inexperienced in the ways of the world. Virtuous living is imperative.”

Not that it mattered, young man, but good luck keeping rich art students from tasting the varied fruits of Minas Tirith. Students had their own keys if they came home after curfew. Given the messenger’s dress and speech, the aspiring artist must be from nobility somewhere. Very well! We’ll tend him for you. Quastille warmed to his pitch, “Young man, you have described our school admirably. I confess; we are not familiar with the customs and faiths of foreign lands. Must they be part of his education?”

“I don’t believe so, Mr. Quastille. A strict and respectful home should serve well. I do not know if this matters, but the person of whom I speak does not eat meat.”

Even better. Meat is expensive – even horse meat. Those Mûmikil were tasty for the first week.

Koos said gravely, “If this meets your standards, my employer would like a word privately. Would you be available to meet him after tea today?”

That was not really a question. This fellow was no errand boy. “Yes, I think I can rearrange my schedule. Sylveth, can you take the afternoon painting lesson?” There was no afternoon painting lesson. Both students were free after lunch but this man didn’t need to know that.

“Of course, father.”

“Very well, Mr. Koos. Where should I go?”

"I'll have a man-cart here for you at the three-bell."

_____________--------____________

Oh, please, let this be real!

It had taken Quastille a year to get two paying students. Bloody orcs! With two he could just keep the wolf from the door. With three, one a foreign lordling with local patrons, he could get on the waiting list for spectacles. His vision was robust as a young blade but things were blending together now. Before the war a pair of spectacles would have cost a duke's ransom. Melting glass that pure was difficult. One in twenty lenses survived being pressed into the mold.

That had changed in a flash – literally. The molten rock of Mt. Doom flowed over small patches of white sand on its eastern edge. Chipping off the slag revealed fine, bubble-free glass large enough for windows. Pieces the size for spectacles could be had by bagful. Of course, the guild still jealously guarded their grinding and polishing secrets, but raw materials had always been the barrier. Frames were only limited by imagination and cash. 

One had to go to Mordor for this bounty. He would leave that to men willing to sneak past poison water to that smoldering heap. Yes, he would get on the waiting list. Quastille kept all this to himself as the man-carter had nothing to say. This puller was a bit less ragged than his ilk but had the tell-tale knotted calves of men who had hauled their betters up that miserable hill since their naming-days. The cart was cleaner than usual.

The artist made himself comfortable and looked out at the scenery. It had been a while since he’d been to the fifth level that defined upper society. The cart kept going. And it kept going. After passing expectant guards at the seventh level, the royal level, the cart stopped in a shaded turn-out. Koos walked up and said, “This way Mr. Quastille.”

He was shown to a small ante-room that was actually in the palace proper. One could tell by the checkered wall-trim bordering most of the halls. Or so he’d been told. His mural was an exterior work. Koos gestured, “Please take a seat. We’ll be with you shortly.” Shortly turned out to be more like half a bell but a servant brought cooled tea and a cherry tart to wile the time.

The door opened and the King of Gondor walked in alone. As was his habit on non-state occasions, Aragorn wore a simple tunic embroidered with a silver tree on the chest, no crown, no hat. In the confusion of deciding to finish chewing, wipe his chin or stand and bow, Quastille did none. His King sat to his left at the small table. “Thank you for coming Mr. Quastille. I’m glad to meet you.”

By now Quastille had swallowed and managed to croak, “I am honored, my Lord.”

Aragorn said, “We have enjoyed your painting since arriving.”

Was that the royal “we” or did it include the Lady Arwen? “Thank you, Sire. I hope it has fared well with the seasons.”

“You may need to touch it up, but I was thinking of other art this day. I have taken responsibility for a young fellow who wants to be an artist with all his heart. He’s had no artistic training at all in his secluded circumstance and precious little else in the way of learning or social skills. There has been hardship, I fear. I understand your school might be able to help him pursue this ambition.”

“Yes, sire. That is the work we do. Some students live in the city. Others are from elsewhere and stay with us.”

“Do you currently have room for another to stay?

The questioned showed the Lord's breeding but was certainly not necessary. For a King’s ward, Sylveth could sleep in the kitchen. “Yes, Sire. Since the war, families have seen to more immediate needs.” A little honesty is always a nice touch.

Aragorn said gravely, “Before I go any further, this conversation must stay between us whether you take the labor or not.”

“Of course, Sire. “

“This fellow is not a man. He is mostly Elf. He is come from enslavement in the lands of the dark lords and suffered greatly. I don’t know if he has any artistic talent at all. You will be starting with a clean slate. His education must include such things as men of the west take for granted – with a strong sense of moral rightness”

It wouldn’t have mattered if the King said he was an orc. Quastille’s face was a picture of concern. His Liege continued, “May I ask you are able to provide such education and your charge for a year in your care?”

Quastille had debated this since passing the fifth level in the man-cart. He could do it for free to be hailed as artistic consultant to royalty. He could charge an outrageous sum since money meant nothing to these people. In the end, he decided to charge what he got when there were six students clamoring for his wisdom. “Sire, the fee for room, board and education is half a Florin per six months. Twice that would be a full Florin.”

Without a word, the king produced a small purse and pressed it into the artist’s hand, maintaining eye contact all the while. “A fair price indeed. There are two gold Florins in there for your service and another Florin in smaller coins for the student’s incidentals. He has no money of his own and will need clothes, supplies and other things to present himself in our city.

"There are other conditions.”

Of course. It couldn’t be this easy. “You have but to name them, Sire.”

“Given his inexperience, it would be best if he was kept from drinking establishments until he is more familiar with city life." A pause for emphasis, "A man will visit regularly to help him learn the common tongue. He can also interpret for you as part of his duties. If you can make room for tutoring in your lodgings, you can schedule that between you.” 

Aragorn became graver, “The last point is that this student knows things of importance to the crown – things he need only share with his tutor. Let Mr. Koos know if unseemly persons take an interest in him. I would like you to keep me informed of his progress every two months or if there is anything noteworthy, all in the strictest confidence. Is that agreeable?”

“Yes, Sire.” And he meant it. As conditions go, those were no worse than having Sylveth confiscate wine bottles hidden under the cots.

“Very well, Mr. Quastille. Mr. Koos will take you back to the cart. He will tell you how to reach him.”

Quastille stood surprisingly straight and bowed gratefully. Two Florin in tuition and another for the clothes past students had left in the trunk! A good day indeed! 

_____________--------____________

Three knocks on the door; not timid, not aggressive. Sylveth dried her hands on her apron and looked through the peephole. Two men; one so tall she couldn't see his head. They were expected so she opened up.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Please come in."

One man was of normal height with somewhat eastern coloring and features, dressed modestly but well. He seemed small next to the blonde man but was the same height as her Tata. The tall one commanded her eyes. She thought herself over dreams of romance. This one probably had that effect wherever he went.

The shorter of the two said, "You must be Sylveth. I am Amiedes Tallazh. This is Nag Kath. He is to learn art from Master Quastille."

Master Quastille! Yes, yes indeed! Father was an acknowledged Master, but that title wasn't used as often in fine arts as it was in the guilds to define an artisan's standing. Among painters and sculptors, 'Master' was honorific, usually self-applied. She smiled, "You are expected, sirs. If you'll have a seat, I'll let the Master know you're here."

Sylveth walked downstairs as the visitors sat on the well-worn couch. Nag Kath's eyes immediately went to some of the small paintings hung around what served as the main room. The night before, Gantellus managed to find some clothes in the giant's size along with a pair of shoes. The military trousers were inappropriate given whose side he had been on. Longer trousers and shoes also made him look less like a huge hobbit. His blouse had blood on one sleeve from the chafing of the manacles. Those wounds would have taken weeks to heal on a man. No one noticed Nag Kath's wrist was already smooth. 

Quastille was on the second floor demonstrating how to mix the brown shades of paint. Artists who painted or decorated sculpture in color had to be chemists as well. Some components were always available like pitch and powdered stone. Others were from plants and needed to be acquired in season. Quastille had a good supply of most, but always kept his eye to the markets for bargains or when dead flowers could be had for the taking.

The Master came upstairs and bowed to the mismatched pair. "Welcome to my studio, gentlemen. May I offer you tea?" Sylveth kept the kettle warm so she could reheat it quickly. After all, these were paying customers.

"Thank you, yes, for both of us." After a pause to acknowledge Sylveth's effort, Tallazh spoke again, "Master Quastille, I am Amiedes Tallazh. I have been retained by our benefactor to introduce Nag Kath. It is Nag Kath's hope to learn all manner of artistry. He has no formal training whatsoever and does not speak our language so this may be challenging. His benefactor thought I should visit here twice a week to tutor his language skills and interpret for you should you find barriers in communication."

Well, Quastille thought to himself, this was manageable. The King hadn't made any demands on the speed of his learning, or that he learn anything at all. Look at the size of this fellow! He would have to duck under most of the doorways in the home. "Thank you Mr. Tallazh. That will certainly help. Showing visual arts is easier than explaining so we should make progress. Did you have any particular days in mind?"

"I had thought to ask after Tuesday and Thursday mornings for two hours each."

"Could we possibly make Thursday after lunch?"

"Yes, I think that will be fine."

Quastille asked, "Mr. Koos said that Mr. Kath had unusual dietary needs?"

Mr. Koos, not Lieutenant? Tallazh would keep it that way. "I think just Nag Kath will be fine, and not that I know of. Serve whatever you are having and he can make those decisions himself."

Quastille probed, "As a foreigner, does he have any religious or cultural observations we should know? We wouldn't want to cause offense."

"Again; not that I know. Alas, Nag Kath's people were under the thumb of dark powers for some time. Assume that he is, in your terms, a blank canvas for the higher ideals of Gondoran culture."

The two men had met before. Tallazh remembered Quastille from a gallery exhibit ten years ago. His work was quite good. The Master did not recall Tallazh, but there were so many easterners about these days. The businessman continued, "Mr. Koos has already told you how to contact him. Here is where I can be reached." He handed Quastille his business card. "If anything happens you feel is important, I am available at all hours."

For his part, Nag Kath had sat quietly watching the men speak and drifting back to the paintings around the room. Tallazh then spoke to him in a harsh, guttural tongue. The Master thought he would speak some form of Elvish. Maybe this was a form of Elvish. The rangy youngster nodded as if new to nodding.

Tallazh said "Then I will take my leave." Both visitors stood. Tallazh and Quastille bowed in the manner of equal citizens and the darker man saw himself out the door.

Quastille decided if the giant couldn't speak the common-tongue now, there was no time like the present. He thumped his chest and said, "Master Quastille" slowly three times. 

Nag Kath rose and pointed at himself, "Nag Kath" with the same raw tone Tallazh used. He pointed at Quastille and said, "Mashte Kaastul", leaving out the elegant 'i' that hearkened back to a fine, old family.

He will manage it soon enough. "Sylveth, this is Nag Kath. Nag Kath, this is Sylveth." who had only just brought tea. 

Nag Kath did not do as well with her name but neither Quastille corrected him. Sylveth handed him the tea. The big lad immediately took a swig, dropped the mug and turned beet red. " ** _Doosht!_** "

Quastille spoke quietly to Sylveth, "Hot tea must be new as well." Sylveth looked at the broken mug on the floor. For an instant she was distressed because it was one of the few matching pieces they owned. Then she recalled that this handsome Elf-breed came with enough geld for a new set.

The Elf resumed his normal pallor and seemed to realize he had offended. " ** _Taraldshe._** " That was not a word used much in the pits of Isengard. Uruks did not apologize. It showed weakness. It would only be said to a superior to mitigate punishment, not that it did much good.

Then he gracefully stooped and started picking up pieces. Sylveth joined him. Much of the steaming tea had evaporated or dripped through to the studio. Sylveth cupped her hands and Nag Kath gently poured his chips on top of hers with a sheepish grin.

"This way, Nag Kath." The stranger picked-up a small carpetbag next to the sofa and followed Quastille downstairs past the two students to the lowest floor. There were six cots, none of which was long enough. The Master dragged a spare up against the foot of another for extra length. His feet would have to stick out under the blanket. Then he made a show with his hand of putting the bag on the cot and the Elf did so.

Up a flight the lads were grinding and mixing the paint they would use the next day for their landscape study. The greens were already done. Both looked up at the teacher and new student. Quastille told them the night before a boy was joining them but no more.

Timalen Brushta was not yet 17. His lank brown hair would soon thin. He seemed grim but that was more because of his long sallow face than lack of humor. Tim was a clever lad and was here because his family recognized his talent and pooled their modest resources so one of them could succeed. He managed a rare smile at the towering Elfling.

Lentaraes Maedegon was three years older with a handsome face and jet black hair, black enough to have some eastern blood, except everything else about him could have been carved from a Numenorean statue. He had also demonstrated artistic potential but his main reason for attending was that after his army service he had not dedicated himself as much to his family's business as to carousing with idle friends and visiting unsuitable females after decent people had retired. They paid for the semester in advance. Lentaraes produced an easier smile and reached over to Nag Kath to shake hands. 

No one had explained handshakes to Nag Kath. This didn't seem a threat. The prison guard with the stick wasn't so lucky. He reached out and encircled the student's normal hand with careful pressure. A complete success! He could have broken every bone by misinterpreting the gesture. Timalen walked around the work table and did the same.

Quastille spoke in his lecturer's tone, "Gentlemen, this is Nag Kath. He is come to us from northern lands and speaks none of our tongue so anything you can do to further his understanding will help. He is also new to our craft and will be further behind you as we progress. Fear not, this shan’t impede your own studies. Nag Kath’s family are pious people and his benefactor made it clear that his education is to be in keeping with our southern virtues," with a nod to Lentaraes. Lentaraes would have to ask privately if that meant southern virtues like the pious Valarans modest living or like his own. There was quite a range.

Quastille instantly saw the look and made the same conclusion. The Master had known plenty of lads like Lentaraes; playboy sons of successful families. Unlike most of them, Lentaraes wasn't a hard drinker. He liked his fun and company but never came back to school in his cups. No doubt there were husbands he should avoid. That was his business. The Master walked over to the mixing table. They had done good work. "You might add a little more ocher to this batch," he offered. “It will dry lighter than it shows now."

The students got back to their craft and Quastille to the visitor. He wasn't quite sure what to make of him. Definitely a man, if man was the word, to have behind you in a scrap. No scars, straight teeth, the King and Tallazh both said he had seen hard times but you couldn't tell that from the pretty face. Well, let's see what he could do! The master showed him to a tall stool behind a raised, angled desk. A large piece of paper was already pinned to the surface and there were several pencils and charcoals resting against a lip protruding from the bottom. Leaning over the desk, Quastille took one of the pencils and started a rough sketch of the far corner of the room with the large window. It only took him a minute to get the essence of the subject. The Master handed the pencil to Nag Kath and dragged his finger further to the right where the sketch could be continued.

At that moment, Nag Kath realized that this was one whose chest must pound from making art. That was a feeling. Feelings were bad except anger and hatred. Fear was a feeling too. Fear was how the training sergeants enforced their orders but it must not be shown among ranker Uruk warriors. Quastille wondered how such a large hand could grip the pencil but then realized the teenager's fingers were quite elegant, much like the Dúnedain men of Dol Amroth who played the large Delannes harp in traditional story-song. 

Nag Kath stared for a minute in silence before extending the Master's lines along the floor and rafters to the right until they reached the hill-side of the studio. To Quastille's amazement, he copied the ticked wood grain of the beam as drawn but used more as the shadows deepened away from the window. Maybe this fellow had done some drawing before. 

His new student was already intent on his sketch so Quastille let him doodle and would check later. He needed to inspect the canvasses Timalen and Lentaraes had stretched for receiving fresh paint in the morning session. Then he would slip out to the fourth level for a visit to a spectacle maker's shop. The guild Master had produced spectacles for two patrons and came recommended. Bribing his way up the waiting list was part of the purchase but he now worked for the King, even if he couldn't tell anyone.

_____________--------____________

Another lucky day! The spectacle Guildsman had no customers in his shop and could study Quastille's eyes in proper light. The problem with his vision was simply age rather than misshapen eyes from birth. Evidently that was common and only called for a simple grinding process. He could even get narrow lenses to see over the top edge for distance. It would take several more fittings and cost more than he'd originally thought, but what was money was for?!

When the Master arrived back at the studio, both of his older students were in their quarters. Timalen was reading. He was almost always reading. A cousin or nephew was an adept at the College of Scholars and could borrow books quietly as long as they were returned in the same condition. Lentaraes was sitting up on his cot with a small sketch board. For all of his affected indolence, he actually liked creating things. A thought would enter his mind and must be committed to paper else it would not leave.

The master asked, "Where is the new man?"

Timalen looked up, "Still downstairs working on the sketch. He seemed very intent." Quastille walked down the stairs and saw Nag Kath exactly as he had left him three hours before. There was still light enough to see the drawing so he quietly worked his way behind the aspiring artist.

This was something to be seen! Every object, every shadow, even a cobweb was drawn from one end of the room to the other. The lines weren't as straight as would have been drawn with a rule but good enough. Nag Kath had drawn no perspective so the cabinet furthest from the window was the same size as the near, but this was still an astonishing scribble from someone who purportedly never drew a stick-man in his life.

Something was wrong. The shadows! They were drawn exactly as they were when Quastille left. Somehow the Elf had memorized the light at that moment and never adapted. The master complimented, "This is nice! Tomorrow we'll work on distance." They both climbed the stairs to the top floor, collecting Timalen and Lentaraes along the way for dinner.


	5. What He Knew

**_Chapter 5_ **

**_What He Knew_ **

Twice a week for two hours at a stretch, Tallazh and Nag Kath sat together privately in Quastille's kitchen nook at work on the latter's common tongue. In the process, Nag Kath spent much of the time describing his life as a fighting Uruk-hai. Tallazh took notes in Quenya (high Elvish) for security.

After a few sessions, Tallazh wasn't sure the King would get much more than he already knew. The Elf's beginnings were as humble as a stable fly. The Uruks were grown rather than born. Unusually, he came from a pod (he called it) of only 19 individuals. Most Uruk-hai were created in lots of hundreds according to their special purpose in the war.

Nag Kath's pod members were taller, thinner and faster runners than the average Uruk so they became staff messengers. Part of their training was remembering orders and responses verbatim. Field commanders were notoriously unwilling to obey or even acknowledge competing line officers so using unaffiliated runners offered some small neutrality. There was job security too. If a messenger met with an accident reporting to your command, there were repercussions. Crows were much faster but could not remember more than a single phrase. They were also tasty. Sometimes small orcs riding warags, huge, fell wolves of the enemy, were used. They were faster too, but owed their allegiance to Mordor. Saruman wanted independence in planning.

Uruk-hai were strictly line soldiers. The vast majority of them carried swords or pikes. One in ten of the best were trained as archers. Uruks didn't make anything, cook anything or do anything other than train to fight men. Orcs manufactured all weapons and armor. Sometimes the Uruks would help orcs fell trees but the two breeds hated each other even more than they hated themselves. 

More to the King's interests; battle formations were in units of ten. That was helpful because Elvish counting was in twelves. Nag Kath could do arithmetic fairly quickly by using his hands. Even if he didn't know the names of the sums, ten fingers twice was either twenty or a hundred, depending on how they were placed. He was completely illiterate. Units of ten were headed by a senior fighter or corporal in western parlance. That job was earned in blood. Sergeants could manage from two to five units of ten depending on the application. Junior officers might handle more units or have sergeants report to them. Higher rank was convoluted or unshared with Nag Kath. Who was in a good odor mattered more than seniority so ambitious Uruks spent a lot of time currying favor. Essential provisioning and discipline was left to their underlings with varying degrees of success.

The reason Tallazh began to doubt the military usefulness of the Elf/orc's information was that Saruman's troops were isolated from Sauron's. He said that they also used units of ten but didn't know anything about the command structure. Merchant Tallazh saw the King after four such meetings with Nag Kath but kept his concerns about the intelligence to himself.

Starting with the fifth meeting, things changed. No one ever thought to consider the minds of these creatures. They could be cunning and clever, brave even, but their motivations were never discussed. How could such low beings have interesting thoughts? Perhaps more relevant; how did Nag Kath’s memories translate to his new brain? Had they been selected as messengers because they could remember things so precisely?

When Tallazh asked why the Uruks would charge into certain death compared to death for deserting or disobeying, Nag Kath became stone silent for several minutes. Tallazh didn't push because he would see the changeling's mind at work. Finally, it said that each level of superior was capable of dealing terrible pain and death for the slightest infraction. Death happened seldom, but enough that no one doubted it. Officers, in turn, faced the same horror until finally reaching the point where the evil wizard could inflict unimaginable suffering with a wave of his staff. Death in battle was the best possible outcome. Preparing for death in battle was less painful than objecting. They would not live long anyway. There was camaraderie, of a sort. Anyone suspected of less than enthusiastic cooperation was fed to the warags. 

Nag Kath finally opened-up about his torment in the dungeon. Tallazh hadn't quite understood that in the first interrogation. When the ring was destroyed, the world felt a burst of lightning as the power was released. That knocked the Uruk stone cold. Each time he woke, he would eat and then undergo up to three hours of excruciating pain as different parts of his body remade themselves from orc to Elf. Then he would lose consciousness again and wake two or three days later to repeat the cycle.

This went on for about eleven months, counted by food since the cave had no light at all. Then, rather suddenly, the pain of transforming was greatly reduced. He still felt changes and localized aches, but nothing like the conversion. He had become what he is now.

To escape the pain, Nag Kath developed a technique that let him decouple his mind from his body. In the worst of the cycle it would only last a few seconds. As he got better and the cycles lost intensity, those intervals grew longer. Now, he could leave his body for hours at a time. Tallazh first thought of the mystics in Harad who trained themselves to ignore all the flies landing on them. With contemplation, this seemed more like how Elves rested. Perhaps in becoming an Elf he had learned their natural restoration the hard way.

In his second meeting with the King a month later, the two men talked much longer. Maybe this was useful after all. No matter how many orcs survived, they didn't have a reigning dark lord. Fear flowed from the top. Sowing doubt into the foot soldiers as they deployed might be possible now. They were also poorly fed so they might be bribed with meager meals. The merchant wasn't sure how that could be done, but the King was so deep in thought he hardly noticed Tallazh leave. 

Along with his art studies, Nag Kath was learning some common speech. He never seemed to forget a noun. Descriptors were confusing and tenses were worse. Still, he forged on. Quastille and his students helped too. They reported that the northern student did not seem frustrated and would keep trying as many times as it took to succeed. 

Two months into Nag Kath's artistic training and three days after Mr. Tallazh's last visit, Quastille contacted Mr. Koos to brief the King. The same man-cart and puller arrived at his door right on time and he went to the same room in the palace. King Elessar was late – something to do with the Haradrim. 

"Good day, Mr. Quastille. I hope you are well."

"Indeed I am, Sire. I thought it time to update you on your charge."

"Mr. Tallazh tells me he can manage a little of our tongue."

"He is not yet understandable, but he can say a word or two of his meaning to narrow the field. His fellow students have been helping him on the side. They've taken a shine to him."

"How are his mood and demeanor?"

"Cheerful, for the most part, my Lord. There are times when he sets his face with great purpose, but it is in concentration rather than upset. If ill-use in his old lands worries him, it does not show."

"Good. Let us not forget his artistic side."

"That is another story, My Lord."

Was this good or bad? The King said nothing and the Master pulled a sketch out of a leather tube, handing it to his liege. It was a picture of two beautifully drawn hands. They were not in the tradition of monarchs holding scepters in long, joint-less fingers. These were just plain hands, but as exact as life itself.

"He drew his right hand with his left and the left hand with his right." Quastille flushed, "Without false modesty, Sire, I am a skilled and celebrated artist. I have never drawn a hand so well using either of mine. To add further injury, he did this in about a quarter-bell to pass the time.

King Elessar kept his eyes moving between the drawing and the master.

"He seems to burn an image into his mind and recall it exactly later. I've never seen anything like it. So far he has only done line sketches. Next week he will start painting in color. I'm both fascinated and frightened at that prospect, My Lord."

Whatever else the King expected of this experiment, producing a genuine artist was not high on the list. "How much of your influence do you see in his work?"

"Quite a bit, sir, and something of my first instructor. Perhaps that is because I couldn't explain things so I would begin a subject and he would complete it. Now, I give him paper and pencil or quill and leave him be. If I have a concern, it is that he draws things so precisely because he lacks imagination. But then he draws subjects that no one else would care about like birds or house-cats or spoons in the wash basin. Frankly Sire, I'm both proud and embarrassed. He will know everything I do ere our year is up."

"Be not worried, Master Quastille." Master? That was encouraging. "I am quite pleased with your efforts. Let us speak again in a month or two."


	6. The Feast of Tellarian

**Chapter 6**

**The Feast of Tellarian**

Quastille had done a good job of keeping Nag Kath from temptation. Timalen had no vices and Lentaraes was taking his studies fairly seriously. It helped that the latter's father cut his allowance for transgressions that could not possibly have been Lentaraes' fault.

Somehow Timalen produced a deck of cards. They were the kind with the rank, family and powers of each character shown only on one side. Timalen knew little of the games men could play with these. Lentaraes knew a lot. Nag Kath looked at the pictures. For betting games they used straw for markers.

After dinner, the young men would retire to their quarters and Lentaraes explained the value of different combinations. Nag Kath grasped little of that and none of why men would wager on those outcomes. Of course, he had no concept of money either. Master Quastille controlled his purse at the direction of unmet, pious northern relatives. His clothes were poor and ill-fitting, some of them almost like breeches. Lentaraes wondered why anyone would send him all the way here without a groat in his pocket. 

Nag Kath had been largely confined to the studio with occasional strolls to the grocers with Sylveth for provisions. They were an odd couple. She; aged beyond her years and of matronly proportions. He; a tall, handsome teenager wearing pants that showed his calves. His hair had grown enough that it didn't resemble a dandelion. It covered his ears.

Still, Nag Kath's full immersion into artistic life was inevitable. The Feast of Tellarian was only days away. For scholars and ascetics that meant study and meditation. For everyone else it meant three days off. Only the stingiest employers opened for business. Exceptions were taverns, hostelries and the gaol, all for the same reason.

Lentaraes had fallen into a little extra coin from his mother who was sure he was but one epiphany from righteous living. Timalen was still as poor as a temple rat. Nag Kath had no notion of goods and services. Such as they were, Tim and Nag were as close as he had to friends north of the port of Pelargir so Lentaraes planned to take them out for a modest night on the town. Hopefully the Elf would wear the one pair of trousers that reached his shoes. The Wayfarer Tavern on the third level had pretty maids ...

They arrived before the crush. Taking a large table near the back, the three friends ordered ale and started playing Dukks. Straw markers were upgraded to tooth-twigs for the occasion. Nag Kath had never tasted ale. As an Uruk, he had to eat moldy sawdust bread many times but this was, well, interesting. Timalen had drunk it before, once and too much. He approached his mug cautiously. Good-natured drinkers at nearby tables chuckled at the toothpick stakes but it kept professional gamblers from inviting themselves into the game. 

Timalen's luck was in. He kept receiving royal cards in combinations of magic and discarding nothing the other two could use. Tooth-twigs mounted and he guarded them as closely as his ale. Lentaraes chose his chair so he could watch for women. They would start arriving after four. War widows leaving offerings at the shrine near the main gate would come a little later. These were women with much to offer and few to share it with. As two ladies walked into the tavern, Lentaraes leaned towards Nag Kath, "How about that one?" He nodded towards a tall creature in her best dress. "She's your size."

Nag Kath looked with a blank smile of incomprehension. Mildly horrified, Lentaraes realized that for all Nag's impossible good looks, he really was an innocent. Oh my stars! How ... well, too late for that now. If one of these ladies took a fancy to him, his education would begin soon enough.

Lentaraes raised a mug to a group of four women who had just entered. One he recognized from somewhere and that was reason enough to share their table as the room filled. The ladies coyly took the remaining chairs. For a minute, confusion reigned. Tim was struck as dumb as Nag Kath. Lentaraes took control, "I am Lentaraes Maedegon and these are my friends Timalen Brushta and Nag Kath. We are students at Master Quastille's college of art, learning to make best use of ..." drawing the last words out for effect, "… life and form.

"You will have to excuse Nag Kath. He is from the north and speaks very little of our tongue. Tim knows it well.” That last bit came with a glare for Timalen to contribute before these females got bored.

A pitcher and new mugs arrived, giving Tim time to compose himself. He did them proud, "Yes, art lets us savor loveliness as few mortals can."

Good lad, Tim! Where had that come from? Lentaraes did his best to encourage a few nouns and vowels from Nag Kath but it scarcely mattered. The prettiest, if not the youngest, of the women had not taken her eyes off him. Other than to introduce herself as Kataleese, she said nothing. Her friends noticed too, hoping she wouldn't drool. Kataleese was not a war widow. She lost her husband during the West Osgiliath fever season a few years back and now earned a fair living doing piece-work embroidery for tailors who had completed the basic clothing. 

After an hour of enchantment, Lentaraes knew his cash would run short. The tavern was too close to the art school for an anonymous exit so he announced, "If you ladies will excuse us, we really should prepare for the morning lesson." There was no morning lesson, but it saved face.

Marletta, the woman he recognized and apparent leader of the group, drawled, "Ah, but we will lose your pleasant company!" She snapped a silver tenth Florin on the table in view of the maid, more than enough to cover all their ale until closing time, even at these prices. 

That said several things, one; these ladies were not for hire. They were good citizens, come for the blessings and forgiveness of Tellarian. Two; if these impoverished but attractive young men could tear themselves away from duty, good conversation could be had from at least two of them. Three; they had to get poor Kataleese and Nag Kath to open their mouths because this might get very interesting.

Lentaraes gratefully said, "Tellarian's feast comes but once a year. I'm sure Master Quastille will understand."

He wouldn't know either. 

After another twenty minutes of mooning, Kataleese drained her mug, stood up and took Nag Kath by the elbow through the front door. Knowing smiles followed them out. The night was young.

_____________--------____________

After the evening at the Wayfarer tavern, Nag Kath changed, grew really. In his free time he wandered the city with his sketch book. If a location caught his eye, he might draw a study and come back the next day with an easel and paints.

His favorite subjects were ordinary people going about their lives like washerwomen chatting by a fountain or farriers shoeing horses (although he still made horses nervous). One evening he strolled up to the fifth level and sat on a public bench near a fashionable restaurant. Now late summer, diners preferred tables on the patio by the switchback path. 

Nag Kath spotted two couples enjoying dinner together. An attractive woman seated next to what must be her husband was listening to her counterpart across the table. He froze her image in his mind and drew a very flattering head-and-shoulder impression. It took only a few minutes and then he used the other half of the sheet to start a study of a flowering creeper climbing the trellised garden entrance. On his new line-of-sight, Nag Kath didn't notice the woman's husband trotting behind him to catch an old friend walking by. Returning to his table, the man saw the sketch of his wife on the poster board.

A jealous or possessive type might have accosted Nag Kath for taking liberties, but not Telemath. He froze in his tracks and barely inhaled. Shonedra had been captured for the ages. As with the best of men, he loved her more than the day they married ten years before. Telemath was not a shy man either. He walked up to Nag Kath and asked, "Would you take a silver tenth for your drawing?" The Elf looked over his shoulder and smiled. He had learned what money was but not why anyone would give it to him. 

This could only be good news so he said, "Yes. Thank you." Nag Kath quickly signed the piece with his entwined initials. The Master had shown him how after realizing his work would eventually be in demand. 

"I may want to engage you for other work. How would I find you?"

Another of Quastille's business tips, and art was a business, was teaching the Elf to write his address on scraps of paper. Tallazh had also shown him a few strokes but he was still illiterate by any practical measure. Nag Kath reached in his pencil bag and handed the man Quastille's level number and suite with a smile. He put the coin in the one pocket without a hole.

Mr. Telemath never did stop by, but other people impressed by the drawing or hearing of it did. Before long, Nag Kath was generating two commissions a week. His specialty was family portraits since he could imprint rare moments when the children weren't squirming or crying and complete the work later at the school.

Lentaraes dutifully explained that commissions must be celebrated in the artistic lifestyle. Sometimes Marletta would join the students. Sometimes she brought Kataleese. Those evenings always ended the same way. After patient instruction on their first meeting, Kataleese discovered great physical release. But she kept the ardent Elf/man (he never said) at arm's length. A younger woman had already fallen in love with one penniless, handsome lad. The owner of a building repair business had taken notice of her again. Nag Kath was a good way to bide her time.

For his part, Nag Kath didn't understand emotional dynamics. It was either time or it wasn't. Since women evidently initiated such things, he simply did something else. He had no idea his attitude would be prized above rubies by men and women who made irredeemable mistakes. He hadn't learned about rubies either.

_____________--------____________

The King chuckled, "This is later than usual, Master Quastille. Would you like a cup of wine?"

Quastille was not a drinking man. As a young artist, he quickly hit the point where he could devote himself to his craft or be one of many who never reached their potential. On the other hand, he didn't have to walk home. "A small one please, My Lord."

Their third meeting was four months after the first. It was also the first time they weren't alone. A steward poured generously for both, bowed and took his position at the door. 

"How fares our artist?"

"So far, so good, Sire. He continues to make progress."

Aragorn took a sip, "Mr. Tallazh reports he is learning our speech as well. How are his more practical skills developing?" Was he still an Elf?

Quastille paused for effect. As the father of a homely daughter, he never had to have this conversation before. "Nag Kath has discovered the fair sex, My Lord. More accurately, they have discovered him. Sylveth has to shoo them from the door sometimes. He occasionally sees one who lives on the third level, a seamstress or some-such. By accounts he's a perfect gentleman."

As tempted as he was to shout; 'He's a bloody orc!' the King just stroked his beard. "I suppose that was inevitable. In a city of women, they would notice him." By the Valar, please, let her not be with child! "How goes his study of art?" 

The time for small talk was over. Quastille slowly reached for his leather document tube and unrolled a larger picture than the last.

The King stopped breathing. Before him was a pen and ink drawing of Lady Arwen and himself. He was leaning slightly back with his right ear to her as she gently murmured. She was beautiful beyond imagining, as beautiful as in real life. There was none of the stylized artistry used to depict royal persons through history. This was vital. It was them.

The Master could not have known but the moment was at Nag Kath's second interrogation when his life was at stake. The Lady suggested ending it with no more emotion than describing the weather. Aragorn remembered it like yesterday. Quastille felt he had to break the silence, "He drew this two weeks ago, Sire. He said it was from when you first met."

"I have never seen its like."

"Nor have I" forgetting to add ‘Sire’. "As with the hands and most other work; he sketched it as easily as drawing a beer barrel." Realizing royal couples shouldn't be compared to low beverages, he quickly recovered, "As the old saying goes, Your Highness. Nag Kath asked me to give this to you and the Queen."

"Thank him for us. I hope to see you again soon." The artist excused, King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom rolled the picture and slowly left for his private quarters. It was the most exquisite image that would ever be created of Arwen, drawn by a monster as she urged his destruction. 

Where could he possibly hang it?


	7. More Than Bargained For

**_Chapter 7_ **

**_More than Bargained For_ **

**Maps Middle-earth Large and Southern Gondor will help for the next chapters.[https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8 ](https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8)**

Nag Kath's interest gravitated towards the first level. It had the most horizontal perspective and racial diversity; soldiers, traders, herdsmen, livestock, teamsters driving mules braying at their lot in life. There were women carrying bundles as large as themselves.

Minas Tirith was carved from a single rock by the Numenoreans. Locals called it the prow because the unusable fascia resembled the front of a boat. Rocks split from the face created the blocks. Numenoreans must have been hardy folk because chipping lodgings out of such hard material was beyond the skill and patience of short-lived men. Legend has it; sorcery was employed.

The orc assault on the White City came in three parts. The main attack was a line of trebuchets hurling chunks of the decaying Rammas Wall at the Gondoran catapults on the second and third levels. The second prong was Nazgûl wraiths riding fell-beasts destroying defensive artillery above mortal reach. The third was a swarm of infantry trained to withstand enfilading fire from the wall while they waited for successive gates to fall. Damage from the second and third prongs was already repaired but wreckage wrought by siege artillery would not be so easy. It is hard to remove the stone around what will become a pillar. It is harder to put back. In some places it was possible to mortar well-fitted pieces together but they would never stand the load like living rock.

On the second level where the damage was worst, apartments and balconies teetering on collapse were demolished and the stone used for other projects. Interior rooms became exterior rooms and estate agents adjusted their prices. The switchback path to the hill side of the attack was now wide enough for a small park. Damage was noticeable from a distance too. Older residents were reminded of ancient statues that always had broken noses.

The first level was by far the widest since the inner wall wasn't defined by the mountain. It was also where materials to repair the upper levels were brought and stored. Nag Kath set up his easel in a bustling market square he had scouted the day before. The sky threatened rain later but it was worth the risk.

Three off-duty infantrymen walked abreast out of a tavern after punishing several pitchers. It was time for the barracks and well deserved sleep. The man in the center slowed and spread his arms to hold his comrades, “That's him!"

"That's who?"

"That's the bastard who done this!" Tomag spat before sliding his finger down a livid scar across his temple and ear. 

"The big dougsh? You sure?"

"Oh yeah. That's him alright."

"Well, we can't have that" said the tall man on the right. He walked over to Nag Kath who was sitting on a folding stool and critiqued, "That's pretty."

Nag Kath smiled back, "Thank you. Hard to catch light."

It was barely out of his mouth when the soldier smashed the easel with his elbow pulling back for a punch at the Elf. Still thirty feet away, the scarred man unsheathed several inches of his long-sword. Contemporary accounts put between twenty and twenty five people in the little square. With the threat of violence, a few scurried away. The rest looked over for the chance of an entertaining fight that didn't include them. 

Magisters of law argue that in any group of people there will always be conflicting versions of an event. Not today. Every witness saw the exact same thing – even if none of them believed it. In one instant, the blonde man began to rise and in the blink of an eye, he was across the square standing over a prostrate trooper who was gripping the hilt of his sword still in the scabbard. Back at the easel, the soldier who started the fight was twitching on the ground with a steady flow of blood from his nose. Some bystanders would later describe a blur or silver wind between the two stricken soldiers. Some heard a fell growl beforehand. The third trooper turned on his heels and ran because he couldn't fly.

Nag Kath looked at the man lying before him. His jaw was broken but he was still breathing. He seemed familiar. Had he caught more than a fleeting glance at the reflecting puddle, he might have remembered snatching the Klaus stave from the guard's hands and whipping him across the face after his gaol-house shower.

The Elf slowly walked back to the first man and saw he was writhing slightly and therefore not dead. The painting was undamaged so he gathered his stool, paint and easel with the canvas still attached and walked back to school.

___________-------___________

Minister Levantos asked permission to speak with the King. This was unusual since he had already seen him in the daily briefing. The guardi head waited until milling functionaries found something else to do. "I have concerning news about the orc, Sire."

King Elessar pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly.

Levantos whispered, "It seems on Saturday three drunken soldiers harassed him while he was painting a picture by the yarn stalls at the gate. One pushed his picture over. He knocked two of the three cold."

"Nag Kath is a strapping lad. I don't see the problem."

"By all accounts, the two troopers were thirty feet apart and nobody saw him do it. One moment he was sitting down, the next he was standing over the far man. Some claim they saw a flash of light between the two. Two dozen people, all sober as Valerans. Right now it's a local stir. Folk are already losing interest. But if there is sorcery afoot, that falls to higher tribunals than mine, Sire."

"What does Nag Kath have to say?"

"We haven't asked. Someone recognized him and word worked its way to me. Lieutenant Koos has kept an eye on the Quastille School since. Things seem normal, although the orc hasn't left."

"What do the soldiers say?" 

"One won't say anything until they take the wire out of his jaw, but he nodded he didn't see a thing. Neither did the first one he punched. The third man ran to a tavern and tried to forget what he didn't see. I spoke with him myself. Said it was a blur. It seems one of them had a grudge."

The King recalled gaoler Randanold's description of Nag Kath's assault on the guardi; ‘the blink of an eye.’ "Let us have a word with Nag Kath. Have Mr. Tallazh come too."

_______________-------______________

Lentaraes and Timalen listened carefully to Nag Kath's description of events at the yarn market. It sounded like rough-and-tumble rowdies where you would expect them. Three soldiers or guards gave Nag a bad time so he landed a couple punches.

Served them right! Nag was a pretty boy from the neck up but he was strong as an ox with the reflexes of a cat. They had never seen him drop anything. Still, those soldiers might have friends so it made sense to keep to the school until Quastille and Sylveth returned from Osgiliath. Now that the old boy could see, he was inspecting cargos for colors unobtainable before the dark lord's fall. Lucca fish were in season too. No city guardi had been sniffing around. Lentaraes did wander a few doors down. Widow Lenstir across the path had little to do but mind everyone else's business. She didn’t report anything untoward as the charming artist sipped his tea. 

By the two-bell, Mr. Tallazh had not arrived. In five months, he had only missed one appointment and that was scheduled weeks before. An hour later, there were three knocks on the door. Timalen was closest and swung it wide. Koos was waiting in civilian garb with a smile. "Good afternoon. I was hoping to speak to Mr. Kath."

The changeling was just behind the door and moved a few steps to see the caller. "I am Nag Kath."

Timalen's delayed manners arrived and he asked, "Won't you come in?"

Once or twice a week, runners from prominent families came to commission artwork. This fellow looked well-heeled. At least, he didn't look like Guardi.

Addressing Nag Kath, "My name is Koos. A gentleman you have worked for would like a word. You may recall a drawing you did of him and his wife sometime back. I believe they were conversing."

Nag Kath blinked a couple of times, "Yes, I come. We go now?"

"If that is convenient."

The changeling grabbed the smaller art tube he used for gifts to the King and the two tall men walked the switchback path all the way to the top. They could have used several of the stair short-cuts but kept to more open areas. Nag Kath had the sense others were close. The King was busy with a minor emergency so Koos and Nag Kath sat within a few feet of where he and gaoler Randanold had on his first trip to the palace. Only a few minutes later, one of the palace guards came out the smaller conference door and looked their way. Koos stood without a word and Nag Kath followed him inside.

King Elessar was sitting on his lower throne which was portable as needed. By coincidence, this was Tuesday assizes to settle disputes and matters of law. A dozen supplicants and that many functionaries stood waiting for other business. Koos walked the artist to the regulation twenty feet from seated royal persons then backed a few feet to the side, handing the tube to Londigal.

"Hello Nag Kath. It has been a while."

"Good day, King Elsarrr (R's were hit and miss). 

"Thank you for the picture of my lady wife and me."

"Glad. I remember." 

"I'm told there was some trouble in the market the other day." 

Nag Kath knew the King must have asked a question but this was a sentence structure he had not mastered. As he knitted his brows for a response, Mr. Tallazh stepped forward and rephrased the king's comment. The Black Speech seemed unusually harsh today. 

"Yes, Sire."

"Please tell me about it."

Nag Kath was of two minds. He had rehearsed both. The first was to attempt it in the common speech. It would be his sorry best but wouldn't seem as orcish. The second was to give a more accurate version in his native language through Mr. Tallazh. He chose the first knowing he could fall back on the second.

What he didn't know was that he had moved at sorcerous speed. In his mind, he punched the first man and ran across the square to punch the other before he could draw his sword. They didn't die. For any but a habitual offender, this was justifiable self-defense. That argument might not hold for former dark servants. Nag Kath made his halting story understood -- although it took several backs-and-forths with Tallazh.

King Aragorn looked confused. "How did you move so quickly?

Now it was Nag Kath's turn to look confused.

"I do …" The changeling mimicked sitting and jerking his elbow above his head before running about thirty feet further from the king and throwing a right cross at the air. He wasn't sure why it mattered. He admitted punching the two drunks.

King Aragorn was a judge, not a prosecutor. Minister Levantos took over, "Everyone there said you disappeared from where you were sitting and reappeared at the second man like that!" with a snap of his fingers.

There was no chance Nag Kath could fumble through this in a foreign tongue. He switched to the Black Speech hoping Mr. Tallazh could make sense of it. The last five months didn't happen. He was on trial again.

Tallazh tried to follow, "It seem normal. Drunks want fight. Stupid. That night I think ... small things. I hit man. Did not see him fall. Turned towards other two and ran among people. They not move. Man's sword no further out. No birds, no crickets, no sound. All stopped. Not dead so I go home. Birds, sounds then."

Was Lady Arwen right? Is this an abomination returned from Mordor? If so, why would he expose himself by dropping two louts in a street brawl? This was not the Sauron Aragorn saw staring back at him in the Palantir. Aragorn pronounced, "Nag Kath, you will stay in your same quarters here tonight while we decide what to do. Tomorrow I will send for you."

Londigal nodded to the palace guards. Nag Kath trudged downstairs behind Londigal, bracketed by two pikemen. This was better than the rock dungeon but his mood was dark. He had disappointed his King. And Mr. Tallazh. And Quastille. His friends at school. Kataleese never crossed his mind. 

He still didn't know what he was and now he didn't know what he had done.

_______________-------______________

King Elessar Telcontar was not sure what this meant. Did the black changeling retain powers that should be expunged from this earth? Logic said yes. Everyone knew orcs could not be sorcerers – a good thing, but they were easily commanded by those wielding fell humors. Still, there was something redeeming about the queer lad. He put it from his mind as farmers Pepies and Yound came forward to litigate a boundary dispute.

After dispensing King’s Justice, Aragorn started walking back to his apartments when Londigal handed him the tube on the way by. Arwen was already home after gracing the inaugural luncheon of Daughters of the White Tree. The Lord of Gondor set the canister on the entry table and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. He was glad to be finished with law for the day and she was glad she wasn’t a permanent Daughter of the White Tree. 

“What is in the tube, husband?”

“I am not sure … perhaps evidence from the farmers.”

“You need to have someone else do that.”

“Usually I do, but Magister Luddice said large property owners are forcing small family free-holds away from the leach-fields now that they are worth something. I thought it best to discourage that myself.”

“Wine my darling?”

“A short one.” The King inwardly groaned at what he had to say next; “There was trouble with Nag Kath.”

In her measured way, “Oh?”

“Three soldiers attacked him while he was painting. That didn’t go well for the soldiers.”

“He didn’t start it?”

“No, but he finished it. None were slain. It was more the manner of his defense. He hit the closest, disappeared and hit another ten paces away ... didn’t even know he had. The blink of an eye.”

The Queen sat down and closed her eyes. She was absolutely still for the longest time. Without opening her eyes she murmured, “Have you learned what you needed about his masters’ warcraft?”

“Yes. I got some good ideas. Let us hope they are never needed.”

The Lady grew grave, “You know my mind on this. Root and branch! Now he is showing sorcery?” She smiled the slightest smile, “Come, take your ease beside me, my dear.” Her husband sat. “You have purpose for him. I have great faith in your wisdom. This is not a place for magic, though.”

He kissed her. “I will think of something.”

Aragorn woke before dawn and wandered barefoot into the entry hall to light an oil lamp. The small leather tube was still sitting on the entry stand so he wandered over, hoping its content would take his mind from pending decisions.

It most certainly did not.

The King lit every lamp in the study and sat with the picture in his lap. Waves of hope, foreboding, doubt and joy swept over him, making no effort to separate themselves as they poured from thin air. The image was an oil painting of the Star of Eärendil rising over the road to Rohan at dawn, just as it was rising now. Like the picture of him and his Queen, the star had never been captured as gloriously. The light leapt off the page. 

How could that orc brain produce a masterwork with so much significance to this household?! The Evenstar of Arwen Undómiel, named after The Star of her Grandfather, fabled to ride the heavens in his ship bringing the light of the surviving Silmaril jewel to comfort Middle-earth. Also called Gil-Estel, Estel, Aragorn’s birth-name before his destiny raised him in rank. The creature couldn’t possibly know anything about the extraordinary legends surrounding that most beloved star. But he had painted it peeking through clouds of mystery, offering much, saying little.

Was the direction of moment? It was the road north. Inspiration struck. This was a matter of magiks from before any now living in Gondor. The solution must be beyond the world of men as well. 

_______________-------______________

Two hours later Nag Kath was brought before the King in the same setting as he left. Aragorn did not seem as taught, though the changeling knew he was a poor judge of expressions. There were so many different faces with these people. He and Mr. Tallazh both bowed when presented.

"Nag Kath, I have decided you must leave Minas Tirith. You will return to Isengard."

Now it was everyone else's turn to look confused.

"You will present yourself to my colleague Gandalf for further evaluation. I have arranged for you to travel with a convoy of returning soldiers across Rohan as far as Helm's Deep. From there you will make your way up the Gap. While you are with them you will help these men in any way you can. They have been badly hurt by the soldiers of Sauron and Saruman. In going you may make amends."

It took Tallazh a few moments to work that into black form. Nag Kath had made strides in the common speech but this needed to be precise.

"The convoy leaves in two days. That should give you time to settle your affairs here. Sergeant …” looking to his scribe.

“Matelars, Sire.”

“... Sergeant Matelars of the Rohirrim will lead the company. You will report to him inside the main gate at sunrise that day.”

Nag Kath was the only one in the room who did not know this decision had been made over the Lady Arwen’s strong objections. Saruman would not have shown any mercy either. As the changeling bowed and turned, the King said gently, "Should you return this way, I hope you will visit us."

It was too soft for Tallazh to hear.


	8. Exile

**_Chapter 8_ **

**_Exile_ **

After being released from the palace, Nag Kath went to the only home he knew and explained everything but his origins. Displaying magical ability didn't seem odd for those around him. He was so unusual anyway, what was a little sleight of hand?

Quastille and Timalen took it hardest; Quastille with genuine emotion at producing a future master and worry that the King might want a refund for the second semester. That money had been invested. Sylveth was quiet, but who knew her heart? 

Lentaraes was pragmatic but would still miss him like the big little brother he was. Having a savant in the studio made him take his own considerable gifts more seriously. The former soldier of Pelargir also made himself useful. Nag Kath kept his cash unspent, save for their ritual celebrations. If the fellow was about to trek to northern lands in autumn with hardened Rohirrim, he would need more than his high-water trousers. Together they took Nag Kath's purse and visited several ready-made clothing stores and outfitters. 

Nag Kath's conception of money was still evolving. He kept the coins of each transaction separate – not understanding that one groat spent exactly like the rest. He was not easy to fit but they found a heavy coat, bedroll, surplus boots, warm socks, under-clothing, a folding pocket knife, two pairs of trousers, several blouses, a knit cap and a sweater. At a market stall they acquired a frame pack to carry all of this around figuring that even thought his kit would probably be loaded onto a wagon, it shouldn't be more than he could carry. Lentaraes left weapons, food and sundries to either Gondor or Rohan. Neither of them thought of a horse.

Before dawn, Nag Kath asked Timalen to return a twenty groat advance to a family hoping for a pen and ink sketch of their little boy. Apologies and urgent missions for the King might salve their disappointment.

He must have seemed a strange figure to people preparing to leave the city. The hastily repaired gates were left open during the day now that the threat of Mordor was gone but they were still always manned with crack troops. New, stronger gates were under construction. Pirates, bandits and people of false pretenses were still plentiful. Timalen walked with him to the main gate. It was only one level down on the same side of the prow. Tim strained to lift the pack up for the Elf but Nag swung it on with ease. His leather tube with paper and art supplies was lashed inside his bedroll. Reaching the paddock, Tim gave him a hug. Nag Kath’s people never hugged. 

_______________-------______________

There is always some confusion when a wagon convoy is organized. Even experienced drovers must position their charges. Animals do not understand. Heavy bundles must go to the right wagons in the right order. Everyone else is in the way.

Nine wagons were lined in a row. A combination of mules and horses pulled them, mostly four animals to a team but some had only two. The larger wagons could carry up to six men plus the teamster. There were thirty-one invalids altogether. One wagon was the traveling kitchen with Cookie and his helper. Trailing them on a lead were several cattle and sheep whose prospects were poor.

Their escort was twelve outriders. Four were an honor guard from Gondor who would see them past the Oruadan Forest. The other eight were either healthy men sent from Rohan with Sergeant Matelars or Rohirrim that could now mount and ride a horse unaided. Every man slated for the wagons would have done anything to join them. A few tried, but if Matelars was going to bring this train in safely, his troopers needed to handle their steeds by the standard of their lands.

This was hardest cut. These poor fellows had mostly severe leg or back injuries. Warriors who had lost arms, hands and eyes were already home. If they weren't going today, they were staying. Some of those men's families came here with Matelars in the three returning wagons.

In painfully unmilitary fashion, the changeling walked up to Matelars and said simply, "I am Nag Kath."

Matelars had survived Helm's Deep, the Pelennor and Morannon. He escorted the first convoy of wounded home and returned for this one. The wind-burned sergeant took a look at the pale, tall Elf and breathed a deep sigh. 

Nag Kath added helpfully, "I do not speak your tongue well." One of the few phrases he could say completely

As much as the sergeant would love to chat, he had to get the crippled loaded into the wagons. Well, the man was big and looked fit. That all-too-smooth Lieutenant Koos said their new mouth was there to work. Everyone worked. It would take at least three weeks to cover ground a rider could make in six days. 

"All right" in his northern accent, "Put your pack in that wagon and get in that one. "Darwes, set this man to helping load the wagons when we get there." Nag Kath bowed in courtly fashion. Matelars sighed again. Three weeks on the trail would knock the corners off.

The wagon train loaded provisions at the docks first and then circled along the switchback to ferry the wounded men from the healing rooms on the third level. As they were man-carted down, brother soldiers of Gondor wept openly. Their friends made in mending were lifted into wagons equipped with cots and comfortable pillows to sit upright. Nag Kath joined in carrying invalids from the houses of healing to the man carts and later taking them out. Men had been assigned to specific wagons. One of his charges was blind and Nag Kath had to ask for help to identify the right number.

All this took almost two hours. Once the beasts were settled, Sergeant Matelars gave the order and they crawled back around to the transfer docks and out the main gate.

The rest of the day did not go smoothly. An hour after leaving the walls, Matelars came up from the back of the train. The Elf was walking alongside the cart loaded with his pack. The Sergeant shouted, “Kath, where’s your mount?”

All that got him was a confused look. Remembering the Elf spoke little of their tongue he tried again, “Where’s your bloody horse?”

“Oh, I do not have one. I will walk.”

By the Valar! Didn’t he own a horse? Didn’t anyone think to get him one? Elves are supposed to be smart! “You’d better keep up! You fall behind; you’re on your own!” It was an empty threat. Men with one leg could have gotten out and walked as fast as the wagons. Two wheels broke spokes before sundown. They had spares and a good wheelwright, but when one wagon stopped, they all stopped.

There were other problems too. Only one of the smaller wagons had undercarriage springs. It was a rough ride and some of the men with spinal or stomach wounds could not contain themselves. By dinner the train had a terrible reek. It would be tomorrow night before they reached a stream big enough to wash their bedding and clothes. When they mercifully stopped, Nag Kath was told to collect firewood. No one told him to stop until he had brought enough for a bonfire. Later he joined one of five campfire groups for stew. Men noticed he only ate the vegetables and said nothing.

_____________-------_____________

Progress was better the next day. Men were still sick or incontinent but the wagons kept rolling north. The Sergeant noticed Nag Kath had no trouble keeping pace with the train and chatted cheerfully with whoever was riding nearby, usually one of the teamsters. Horses would not get within ten feet of him. It was like two loadstones pushing each other out of the way.

A few hours before sundown the company reached the Elentath, a creek about forty feet across and deep enough to need careful fording, even in the season of low water. They made camp on the far side. Corporal Relas told Nag Kath to wash fouled bedding and clothes in the flow. That only solved half the problem so he started helping or carrying wounded men to the water to bathe. Clothing got in the way so after the first trip, he carried them into the water about waist deep, both as naked as paw-birds. He dunked them and carried them back to their wagon and got another. It was humbling for these proud soldiers to need this aid but they were not alone, and cleaning was definitely better for them and their neighbors.

Kath Baths earned him grudging respect from the Riders of the Mark. He must be much stronger than he looked to hoist any sized man down to the river and back with little strain. And as humbling as it looked; he was doing as well for their brothers as they were themselves. 


	9. Outcast

**_Chapter 9_ **

**_Outcast_ **

Sergeant Matelars led the company and his word was law. But he was not the ranking soldier, not by a wide measure. Seniority fell to Captain Altheras, hereditary commander of the Landsdown Battalion. Reland Altheras was a Lord of the Riddermark and a King’s Marshal, one of the highest officers on the field that terrible day. 

His 582 riders were in the right-hand corps that swept down on the orc flank storming Minas Tirith. They took light casualties in the charge but had the misfortune to be in the center when the line reformed against Haradrim reinforcements coming from the river. More than half of the Landsdown troopers were lost before they were three deep into the Mûmikils. Altheras’ horse was thrown by a tusk net and one of the beast’s huge feet stepped on his right knee.

Four hours later, he was found and taken to triage. The surgeon took one look and said his leg must go or become gangrenous. Altheras told his men to kill anyone who tried. When he finally lost consciousness, they disobeyed him in tears and let the doctors do what must be done. The Captain woke in the House of Healing. His position required him to roundly curse his men’s disloyalty but he forgave them the next day knowing they had been honorable.

Marshal Altheras could have returned to Rohan with the summer train of wagons but he would ride home the way he came. As soon as he could leave the hospital, he took apartments in the city and tirelessly rebuilt his strength and coordination. Rohirrim retainers were allowed to return north. Local men and women tended his household and were ordered to push him relentlessly, particularly in horsemanship. One horse among the many to choose from was particularly good at allowing him to mount with his wood and leather leg, and did not need the knee commands bowmen train their steeds to recognize. No, the Captain would ride home as a Horse Lord. Soldiers deferred to him reverentially on the way home even though he was friendly and shared stories of high councils past. He did notice the tall Elf keeping-up effortlessly as they trudged through the rocky ground of the Grey Wood but said nothing to him.

The company made halting progress due north for another two days and then turned westward following the Great Road along the northern edge of the Eilenach Forest. On the morning of the fifth day out, the honor guard from Gondor fared them well and turned back to the White City. They would still be in Gondor for another week but the likelihood of bandits was less now that the ground opened before them. And these were men who would enjoy crossing paths with ill-informed troublemakers.

Campfires that night were strictly Rohirrim, save one. The men were generally glad to have Nag Kath along and unofficially promoted him to chief bathing officer. It was meant as an insult but he wore it proudly. A few men did not like having him around and one, Vondras, actively hated him. Nobody liked Vondras either so his vote didn’t count for much. Vondras broke his back in the main charge and would never walk again. Already a bitter man, he took it out on anyone nearby. Nag Kath was an obvious target and that the tall walker never seemed to understand the man’s venom only made it more infuriating. The Elf actually understood more common tongue than he let on. Over the next few days, the road leveled and became smoother, to the relief of fragile invalids and those next to them. Kath Baths were fewer so Matelars or the Day Corporal found him other chores. 

Nag Kath still hardly ate anything. He finally asked Cookie (and aren’t all trail cooks called Cookie?) if he could leave out the meat in his stew. The cook explained meat stock was the beginning and the vegetables were put in later so, no, that was not possible. Cook did say he could set aside vegetables or soaked barley before they were added. In autumn there were also berries and other wild treats along the road so long as he didn’t stray too far from the group.

Trooper Ino’s legs were both broken on the Pelennor. With a pair of crutches he could walk with braces but could not manage any incline or rough ground. He was a nice young fellow and looking forward to seeing his family in Edoras. When they made camp at a good-sized stream, the horsemaster fetched a string and hook from his pack and had Nag Kath help him to the bank. Before too long, a pair of large trout were ready for cookie’s deft touch. The changeling found that fish did not nauseate him the way meat did and had a few bites. Mostly it was nice to see Ino relax by water’s edge after bumpy jostling all day long.

_______________-------______________

The day they cleared Nundol, a campfire yarn turned to childhood training. The riders of Rohan were all schooled in traditional horsemanship and war but other parts of their upbringing were different. With so many sections of the country represented, it made for light conversation before bed. Men got the chance to open-up about how they got here and look back, good or bad, on their instructors.

Nag Kath listened closely but seldom hazarded any comments. Trooper Mintred waxed fondly about a tough old sergeant who taught him how to shoot in the saddle. Turning to the Elf, he asked, “How about you, Nag? Did you do anything like that?”

After a moment, the Elf replied, “I was never a child.”

Mintred stayed on his question, “I mean when you were a boy.”

“I was not a boy. I was made full-grown Uruk-hai by Saruman. When Sauron died, I become this. The King send me to Gandalf. He say Gandalf will know why I do not die.” The only sound for the next few seconds was the crackling of the fire. Was this a bad joke? He looked dead serious in the flame-light. Was it even possible? Was this the start of a ghost story?

Trooper Emmeryn growled, “That’s not funny.”

Corporal Relas, highest ranking man at the fire added, “You want to explain that?”

Nag Kath stretched his legs towards the fire, “All my troop was killed but me. Locked in dungeon. When the ring died, I slow turn to this.” He pointed at his chest with both hands. “Very painful. Took a year. No one remembered me in gaol. One day they find, let me out. Now I am here. King Elsurr send me to wizard.” He finally cracked his un-Elvish smile, “Some say he turn me to toad.”

One of the men to the changeling's right sighed, “Long day tomorrow. I’ll see to the horses.”

Yes, the Elf made horses nervous. Didn’t real Elves talk to horses? In this land, not being trusted by horses was a bad sign. No matter the truth of his statements, it was time for bed. Most of the nine men there did not believe him but an hour after dawn, the whole company knew what he said.

_______________-------______________

Nag Kath got many curious looks. Men kept their own counsel. The horses seemed even more skittish when he came close but the mules liked him fine, especially when he gathered handfuls of grass for them walking along the road.

Word reached both Matelars and Captain Altheras. Both dismissed it as nonsense but like everyone else, they did not look at him the same. If there was anything to the claim, Gandalf would sort him proper. The wizard settled with Saruman and Sauron. This one shouldn’t be more than a morning’s work. Later that day, the Captain rode alongside the Elf but not close enough to spook his horse. “So, what takes you to Isengard?”

Nag Kath looked up, “The King say Gandalf will teach me. And make art.”

Altheras wasn’t expecting that. “Art?”

“Oh yes. I paint and draw. King say go to Gandalf to learn more.” That was Tallazh’s hopeful interpretation of what might be a short inquest.

“Very well. Good job cleaning up the men!” The Marshal rode to the van of the column as they crested a small hill to survey the terrain. Nag Kath saw the deference everyone in the company paid the old soldier but knew nothing of his position. For his groats, Sergeant Matelars told people what to do. Only Vondras said anything overtly. As Nag Kath walked alongside that wagon, the trooper shouted out from under the cover flap, “So, you say you’re an orc! Get anywhere near me and I’ll run a knife through your eye!”

They had reached the long stretch of road where the scenery did not change much. That was good. There were fewer rocks in the road meaning fewer bumps. Sometimes Nag Kath would walk between the van riders and the wagons tossing stones out of the wheel ruts.

Three days after the Elf/orc’s disclosure, the Captain and Sergeant stopped together in the lead to let the wagons catch-up preparing to ford a tricky little stream, one of many leading down from the White Mountains. This was the leeward side of the range in the season when the snow melt would be lowest. That figured into their schedule but one could never take the flow lightly.

Their conversation turned to Nag Kath as he arrived alongside wagon five. He spent most time there because it was pulled by a pair of mules. Captain Altheras said, “I don’t know what to make of him Laur. Aside from claiming to be an orc, he seems right enough.”

“Aye, Captain. I’ve had no trouble from him. And I’m sore glad that he helped with the washing.” That was said as a wagon rolled by with a pair of blankets stretched over the cover hoops to dry. 

Nag Kath was not entrusted with any of the night watches though. Those were not favored tasks either, but the Rohirrim practiced the patience and skills to discern threats in darkness from the cradle. The Elf was not of them. The orcs, the rest of them anyway, were dead or underground, but there were still wolves, raiders and remnants of defeated armies out here in the wild.

On day twelve the company cleared the Firien Wood and crossed the Mering Stream into Rohan. This was an emotional milestone. Men who had despaired of ever seeing the Mark again were home. Some broke down and wept openly. It meant that much.

Later that afternoon, wagon eight veered off to the right. The four men and their driver were all from the southern Eastfold. It took half an hour to transfer the food and gear they would need for the two day ride and say goodbye. They were nearly home. Wagon two turned right two days later. Unfortunately, a horse in wagon four’s team broke its leg slipping on a rock and had to be destroyed. The riders’ horses were not trained to pull in teams so they continued on with three animals after moving a man and some cargo to wagon one.


	10. The Blink of an Eye

**_Chapter 10_ **

**_The Blink of an Eye_ **

The northernmost hills of the Ered Nimrais were the last high ground before they reached the Folde, the beginning of the Entwash valley feeding the Snowbourn River. Just before midday, the van rider shouted back to the company, “Stand and draw!”

A warning, a serious warning. Since he had shouted, Matelars risked shouting back, “What care have you Darwes?”

“To the left, Sarn't. Ridge of the first hill!”

A hundred paces away sat three huge wargs, fell wolves of the enemy. They were downwind or else the horses would have warned them well before the van riders. The wargs knew that too. They were out of effective bow range – perhaps not for a Gondor longbow, but the Rohan weapons were shorter-range, designed for nocking and shooting on horseback.

The Captain rode up to Matelars and both men assessed the situation. The Sergeant asked, “Scouts?”

“I don’t know Sarn't. They aren’t making an effort to hide.”

Nag Kath wandered up, never taking his eyes off the ridge. Both soldiers were lost in thought. The Elf set his face and growled, “I will talk to them,” then started loping up the hill. 

Matelars tried to grab his shoulder on the way past but just missed so he hissed loudly, “Where the devil are you going?!”

By now, everyone watching the wargs was watching Nag Kath’s long strides up the grassy slope. Almost all of them feared the worst except Vondras who shouted, “Rip him to shreds you filthy beasts!”

Nag Kath pulled to within ten feet of the seated wargs and started talking with them. Warag-tongue was one of his unmentioned skills from his days as a messenger in Orthanc. If the men could have heard or understood them, the conversation started like this; “These men are under my protection. Leave now.”

The largest of the wolves, a black male growled, “Whoooo are youuuu?”

“I am Nag Kath, Templagk to Saruman.”

The big warg scoffed, “Youuuu are noooo Uruk.”

“I am changed. But I know this one” nodding to the tan beast on the end. “You were sunguud to Oglich.”

The other two warags turned to him as he confirmed, “Yessss.”

The big black spoke, “We will take horsssesss.”

“I will kill you. Better for you; we kill lame horse yesterday. Follow our trail and you will find by nightfall.”

The black again, “You lie!”

“If I do, you catch us by morning. You are warned!” 

At that, Nag Kath turned and started down the hill to the amazement of the men watching. After he had walked six paces, the black warg tensed into a crouch and pounced at his shoulders. 

None of the onlookers believed their eyes. When the wolf was in midair, Nag Kath was suddenly three feet to his right facing up the hill. It appeared the warg had passed through him. It landed, took a step and fell over dead. Nag Kath surveyed the body, his right arm covered in blood. Then he walked back to the two remaining beasts and talked for another minute, pointing down the road they traveled that day. The Elf turned again and ambled back to the wagons with his silliest smile. The wargs looked at each other before trotting towards where he had pointed, carefully out of arrow range.

Upon reaching the wagons, most riders plus faces looking under the wagon covers saw him walk up to the Sergeant and Captain. If they were close enough they heard him say, “I think they go. I will stay here until they go then run to you.” With that he climbed the largest rock along the road and trained his eyes where the trail disappeared behind a hillock. 

The King told him to help these men, so he did.

_____________-------_____________

Both the Sergeant and Captain had plenty of questions but they were still exposed upwind to the north and west. Matelars called to Darwes, “Steady on!” The two van riders had pulled back inside arrow-range of the train and now resumed their place in front. Matelars sent two troopers from the rear to watch their western flank. Once wheels were turning, he looked back and saw the Elf squatting on his rock staring towards Gondor.

Men in the wagons were talking furiously but the horsemen kept to business. Wargs! Three of the bloody things and close to home! There could be plenty more. Matelars stopped the train two miles short of their expected campsite. It was an area with better defensive positions and that mattered more than distance this day.

Sure enough, Nag Kath ran up four hours later breathing no harder than if he had walked. To the Sergeant he said, “They go to eat Shilas (the dead horse).” Looking back he added with gravity not heard before, “I take both watches.”

The two mules from wagon five were tied downwind of their camp. They were better sentinels than the horses for anything approaching from that side but had to be kept together or they would heehaw back and forth all night. Any rider of the Riddermark would also tell you they were more expendable than horses. Preparations made, the evening meal was much like any other except for only one topic of conversation. 

There were more men than usual at Nag Kath’s fire including ones he carried himself. To look at him it was just another day. He managed to wash the blood off his arm but his shirt was still the color of rust where it dried. No one wanted to be the first to ask him what happened. It certainly put his unconvincing claim of being an Uruk-hai in a new light. After he finished his vegetables, Nag Kath said he had to scrub wagon three again. Lovlar, the Corporal on duty, told him he could skip washing tonight and to ask the Sergeant where to take his first watch.

There was a fuss when raccoons raided the oat barrel but no sign of wargs that night. The next day they made good time, although the flanking riders had to work their horses harder peering into gullies. The company covered the ground they lost the day before and camped in a very strong position with the mules again staked on their blind side.

This night, the Captain and Sergeant arranged to be at Nag Kath’s fire. When everyone was chewing, Altheras said, “Nag, I need you to tell me what happened yesterday.”

“Black warag was stupid. He is from Gundabad.” Detailed commentary is not everyday orcish speech. Nag Kath started eating his carrot again as if that was all anyone might want to know.

The Captain struggled to keep from blurting, “Then what happened?”

“I can move very fast. That is why King send me to Gandalf. Why to live and why can move fast. More fast than men or Elves. Faster than Uruk. Uruk very slow.” He shook his head with the last sentence as if divulging a family disgrace. “I say to leave or I kill them.”

The dam broke, “But what in blazes did you do?!”

“Oh, I tore his heart out. Now those two think; more easy to catch dead horse. Stupid Gundabad!” Turning to the Sergeant, “I take north watch now?”

Matelars agreed, “Yes, have Eomath give you his horn when you relieve him.” 

Ten minutes later, Corporal Eomath replaced Nag Kath at the fire and settled in with his mutton stew. The man was as all in Middle-Earth thought a Rohirrim should be: tall and raw-boned with a leathery face from long days in the sun and wind. He was 36 but could be ten years older as these men age.

Corporal was both a cavalry and militia rank. The Rohirrim had fewer stations in their hierarchy than Gondor and Mark militias fewer still. They were always headed by captains, regardless of the company size. There could be several captains in combined forces with the leader chosen by the king, vote or contribution of riders. Some captains were also lords or Marshals by merit or birth like Altheras.

Corporals generally oversaw up to ten Troopers. The wounded train had two such men, although the Sergeant could assign a senior Trooper to be a Day-Corporal, and Matelars often did. Troopers ranged from beardless youths to middle-aged men. That was the lowest rank but position and standing were still earned. They could afford their own horse and armor. There was no fall in esteem between militia men and the standing cavalry at any rank, but that distinction alone would not stop a tavern brawl.

In times of relative peace, the militias attended their own business but must come when horns sounded. Eomath trained horses for battle specialties like flag mounts and line-end so in his work he was always close to war. Most of his steeds from two years ago went to Minas Tirith and quite a few returned. The round trip made for few birthings this season so he and his cousin signed-on with the convoy at corporal’s pay. The landowners in his home district of West Emnet assured him there would be plenty of foals next spring.

Eomath listened to the men around the fire speculating about the Elf/orc. It reminded him of being a boy out on the plain with the old-timers puffing stories. The Elf was a wizard. Gandalf? No, he was still an orc. Not everyone saw him slay the warg. Those who did weren’t sure. It happened so fast.

Eomath hadn’t seen anything. At the van’s warning, the Atliers, usually ten percent of those on duty, immediately looked away from the threat to areas where the real danger might come. His field was due east. Atliers were an age-old precaution. Having the entire company gawking at diversions could blind them to peril. 

At a rare break in the conversation, Eomath drawled, “I have heard of this one.” 

Even the crickets were silent.

Corporal Eomath was one of the outriders that traveled with Matelars to the White City. Most wagons were provided by Gondor for the trip north but this time they brought three with them holding the bairns and modest possessions of families whose menfolk were staying for life. That gave him some leisure in the city with the usual delays and provisioning of the northern convoy. There was no spare time after the siege but now he sampled its peacetime attractions. Wine was a civilized experience. Eomath was treated well and strolled the switchbacks seeing how these soft people lived. 

He sipped his tea and said quietly, “A few days before we left, there was tell of sorcery on the first. A fellow who sounded like our Nag was sitting in a square minding his business. Three soldiers who’d had a skin-full gave him a rough time. The barkeep told me a tall blonde man vanished and reappeared in a snap ten paces away after knocking two soldiers on either end stone-cold.”

“Did he see it himself?” asked young Dornlas.

“Nay. He said he served two yarn vendors who had been in the square and came over directly to fortify.” Cracking a rare grin, “His pub was within sight of where it happened. They swore it was their first cup of the day and both had the same tale. Two dozen people watched the soldiers tease the fellow. Then they were bleeding on the ground faster than you could say ‘dougsh’!” Another sip of strong tea, “Is that what you saw yesterday up the hill?”

After some thought, Gradiallan the teamster nodded, “Aye, Eomath, just that.”


	11. Past is not Prologue

**_Chapter 11_ **

**_Past Is Not Prologue_ **

The sixth remaining wagon turned right towards the Westfold just before noon. It took a bell to transfer kit and provisions from the storage cart and say goodbye. The Westfold and Edoras were more closely allied through war and family than any other in Rohan.

Vondras would not be missed. He must have thought better of knifing Nag. Everyone else had a new opinion of the Elf/Uruk too. Before the wargs, men would correct his atrocious Westron, if only to avoid hearing it. Now he could have sung in Dwarvish to smiling approval. Some of their new caution came from knowing this gentle creature could cut every throat at the campfire with his little folding knife before the first man hit the dirt. They did not know he bought it shopping with Lentaraes to sharpen his goose quills since the students only had one knife to share. Dornlas was a junior Trooper and did the same dirty jobs as Nag Kath. They talked quite a bit.

Edoras was now in sight. They would be there for dinner after crossing half a dozen tributaries a horseman without wagons would have thought nothing of. Men and women were gathering along the wall to watch and wave. Almost everyone in the train was kin or friend, save two men who would continue on to Helm’s Deep. The teamsters were tempted to whip-up but the animals were as tired as they were. As they rolled in, Edorans looked the tall lad over but hurried to find their loved ones. Matelars hardest task was telling a few their man had died or could not make the trip. Small pull or goat carts were near to hand so men could go home as soon as could be. 

When the procession was within sight of the steps leading to the great Meduseld Hall, King Éomer walked out on the porch with two aides. People quickly bowed and he did as well. He had planned to walk down and greet each man personally but later felt it was a moment for those dearest. There would be enough time to thank them for their sacrifice. Captain Altheras and Sergeant Matelars were still in the saddle and had a little more duty first. They and Trooper Dornlas rode to the base of the steps and saluted the King. Altheras shouted with great joy, “Thought you rid of me, my Lord?”

Éomer called back no less boldly, “Nay, you are too hard to kill!”

“That I am, Sire”

“Come up and tell me of your journey!”

Getting a one-legged man up the tall stairs was not as daunting as it would seem. Long before, a comfortable chair on poles was fashioned not only for the disabled but also for the elderly so they would not be left from court. Bearers made quick work of the steps. Altheras accepted their help gracefully. The stubborn old soldier understood he had limitations. Some could be overcome through toil and strength. Some he had better get on with. Matelars and young Dornlas trotted up the normal way. Dornlas had not expected to be called to the King’s presence. Even as close as their society was, he had seen him as Prince or liege only in formation. That was fine. He was a brave young man and there might be better eating in the King’s hall than mutton and porridge.

Altheras was shown to a thick oak table that could seat six. The other three sat in no order. King Éomer was not a stickler for protocol. He insisted on proper court etiquette in formal settings as befitted his blood and position, but in the company of his soldiers, the King was first among equals and greeted them heartily, “I am glad to see you home my friends”

Altheras did the talking, “Thank you, my Lord. This is the end of a long journey.” He meant both the wagon ride and everything since their muster at Dunharrow.

“You too, Sergeant.” Gazing slightly right, “It’s Dornlas, yes?”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you, Sire.”

“Tell me of your trip.”

Again; Altheras, “Just over three weeks, sir. We traveled the same route as others. It took longer because these men were most grievously wounded and difficult to comfort. They will be the last to return. We dropped wagons at Snowbourne, the Westfold and Enmet along the way. One of our wagons will continue on to Helm’s Deep once provisioned and repairs made.”

Éomer looked at all three faces, “Again, it is good to see you back. Were there any difficulties?”

Altheras answered, “It was arduous My Lord, but all men completed the run. Other than that, there were few incidents.”

There may have been more coming but Dornlas blurted, “Except for Nag Kath and the wargs!”

The King adjusted in his chair and looked first at Dornlas and then around the table. In the presence of royal persons of the Third Age, that outburst would have been unthinkable. Here; the King would hear their tale.

The story fell to Matelars. He had been with the King as one of the banished riders in the ascendance of Worm Tongue. They had taken the measure of each other in fierce conditions. Matelars could be trusted to say what needed saying. “Just after we crossed the Aldberg we spotted three wargs on the first ridge of the Folde. They were out of bow range watching. The van called the halt and issued the warning. Atliers scanned our exposed flank but saw nothing. Captain Altheras and I were together and began discussing our options. Then one of our company slew the largest of them.”

“A Gondor long-bow?”

The Marshal said gravely, “He walked among them and tore the beast’s heart out with his bare hand.”

These men had been served no ale. None of them betrayed a smile. Altheras was not given to jest. To no one in particular, the King said, “Tell me of Nag Kath.” Then he looked over his shoulder at an attendant across the hall near the kitchen door and mimed pouring. Maybe ale was needed.

The attendant disappeared and reemerged in only as much time as it took to fill a pitcher from the keg and clutch four mugs by the handles. He covered the distance quickly and placed his cargo on the table without serving. King Éomer poured the mugs in silence. He tabled the pitcher with a thunk, pushed the mugs to his guests and raised a toast, “To the victorious dead.” The other three repeated the toast and meant it with all their hearts. The first swallow never even hit bottom.

Matelars continued, “Nag Kath is an Elf that King Elessar asked us to take as far as we may on an errand to Gandalf. He seemed a harmless greenbottom (an unflattering term for inexperienced) and I wasn’t about to complain so he walked along beside us.”

“No horse?”

“I’ll get to that, sir. A week in, he announced at a campfire that he was actually one of Saruman’s Uruk-hai that had been imprisoned in Minas Tirith. When the ring was destroyed, he spent the next year turning into an Elf.” To his credit, the King let the story unfold. Matelars continued, “Most men thought it a bad joke. A few of them hated him, but in the main, he was a benefit. He volunteered for the scut jobs with never a word of fatigue or complaint. And moving men in such strained conditions is dirty business.”

His liege wondered, “And there was no orcish mischief?”

“Not that I saw, Sire. He is a big, friendly lad. His speech is poor and he makes the horses nervous, but he worked like a mine-Dwarf to ease the men’s suffering.”

“The wargs?”

Dornlas was determined to help, “Three big ones, my lord. Just sitting there like statues. Nag Kath walks up there with nothing but his cod and starts jabbering with the devils. And they talked back!”

Matelars interrupted in more courtly tones, “Their talks concluded, Nag turned and started walking back down the hill. One of the wargs jumped him.”

The sergeant took another pull of the best ale he could remember. “There were at least thirty men watching. It was fully a hundred paces away. When the wolf reached Nag’s back, the Elf disappeared and the warg continued through the air, landed on his feet and fell over dead as Durok! Nag’s right arm was covered in blood up to here ...” grabbing his elbow; “... with the beast’s heart crushed in his hand. I swear by all my ancestors! Then he calmly walks back to the other two, who sat there like retrievers waiting for dinner, and talked with them for another minute. It looked like they were sharing a jest.

“Nag pointed back along our trail a couple times and walked back down the hill with that big, silly grin he gets. The wargs loped off to the south. Nag insisted on watching the pass until the creatures left then he ran to catch us on the road.”

Éomer asked, “What was the pointing about?” 

Matalars had a long pull and said, “He told them of a horse we had to destroy the day before after it broke its leg between two rocks. I was sorry about him. Nag reasoned with the beasts that he would be an easy meal or they could take their chances with live horses and he would kill them. Watching him dispatch the black one must have sealed the bargain because we had no further trouble.”

“Gandalf, eh?”

It was Altheras’ turn again, “Yes, Sire. The man, if you can call him that, is hard to understand but as I took it, he was ordered to Isengard because he has shown these sorcerous powers before and in wonder of why he is the only orc left alive from the Ring War, and how he transformed into an Elf, of all things! He said it was a year of terrible pain. That’s not to say he didn’t deserve it, but he still fared better than the rabble we routed.”

The pitcher hadn’t lasted long and the king made no signal for another. “I would like to meet this Nag Kath.”

“That should be easy, My Lord”, said Matelars. “The day corporal was going to send him to the north farrier to get one of the mules reshod for the trip to Helm’s Deep. He’s probably a stone’s throw away.”

King Éomer nodded to Dornlas who stood and bowed in one motion before hurrying at as dignified a pace as he could out the main doors. Altheras said in defense of his trooper, “Dornlas took a spear in the side at the Black Gate, sir. He rode with the first wagons back last fall.”

It wasn’t needed. He was a warrior of Rohan.

_______________-------______________

Dornlas ran to the smithy at full speed. This was King’s business, mind you! The main farrier’s station was well down in the city. This was a smaller annex for handling officer’s kit and fashioning metal objects for the hall. The young trooper was about to question a beardless apprentice about tall Elves when he saw Nag Kath leading a mule back towards town.

“Nag!”

The Elf looked over his shoulder and smiled. Dornlas ran the twenty paces to him and said breathlessly that he was wanted up the hill. Even Dornlas knew not to mention the King in public. 

Nag said, “A’mash shoe.” picking up his own foot and drawing half a circle around the toe. “Oats now.”

The day-corporal Relas would have instructed the simple Elf. Relas out-ranked Dornlas so the lanky trooper improvised, “Come with me. We’ll get oats there!” pointing up the hill. A workable solution; Nag Kath turned A’mash around and the three of them walked towards the great hall. 

Dornlas tied the mule’s lead to one of hitch-posts surrounding the Meduseld and started climbing the stairs. Nag Kath looked back at A’mash for a moment and followed. The door guards saw Dornlas leave and were told to expect him back with another. They let the new one pass without questions but he still got a good stare on the way by. There weren’t many six and a half foot Elves in Edoras this season, and fewer still dressed like tinkers. 

Dornlas and Nag Kath bowed deeply to the King who pivoted on his stool. Éomer made no sign for them to sit. Dornlas saw a fresh pitcher on the table but stood at proper attention. King Éomer said to Nag Kath, “Thank you for helping my men.”

The Elf returned one of his practiced phrases, “It was the honor.” Close enough.

This was not a friendly summons. Éomer was King because monsters like this one murdered his father, cousin and uncle. They were the horror of Helm’s Deep that would wake surviving children in screams for the rest of their lives. Everyone here would have died too had Gandalf not retrieved Éomer’s exiled company on the best horse Rohan ever produced. The King rose to his own considerable height. Oh Aragorn, he wondered, why didn’t you spit him like a troll? Éomer resolved to not be hasty. If the King of Gondor had reason to deliver this changeling to Gandalf, his will be done. In mirth he did not show, he thought the Lady Arwen might not have been fully in accord. 

There were political considerations too. Lord Aragorn II, now King Elessar Telcontar, had bowed full and greeted Éomer as a brother King in this very hall when his entourage bade tribute to King Theoden. With the legend coming to pass uniting Gondor and Arnor, Rohan could arguably be considered a prior vassal state. Aragorn publicly made no claim on this land other than keeping his promising to return and honor their fallen comrades. He was a true friend in any manner of men and rarer still among sovereigns.

Dornlas remained at attention. If his instincts about his liege were fair, the trooper was now a bailiff. His sword had been left with the door guard. He still had his boot knife but knew as truly as his liege did not that this inoffensive-looking greenbottom could spike them all to the ceiling with it.

Éomer said, “You are going to see Gandalf?”

Was that a question? “Yes.” Nag Kath turned to Dornlas, “He is lord?”

“He is King.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“What will you do with Gandalf?”

“King Elasarr send me. He will know why I live. Can turn me to toad,” he added with a grin.

Éomer bore down, “And why you move so fast?”

That must be a question too. “Yes … yes, My Lord.”

“Tell me of the wargs”

“Sorry, what is wargs?”

“Big wolves.”

“Ahhh. I tell them to go or have trouble.”

Éomer growled, “They did have trouble. You killed one of them.”

“Yes. He was stupid. From Gundabad.” The birthplace should explain all.

“Then you told the other two about the dead horse. Did you do that because they were your allies?” This was more forceful.

And also more confusing. Nag Kath’s common tongue had improved markedly over the journey but he only caught a few useful words. And this King did not have the estimable Mr. Tallazh at his call. When he understood, Nag Kath offered, “Ahhh. Noooo. To count.”

“I don’t take your meaning,” Éomer said impatiently.

“One horse, two tsitsi warags, much to eat for days. Good for them so they go. More hiding near, they do not go. They go, so, two.”

The King relaxed. They were right. He was hard to dislike. Brave too. And not slow either. That was quick thinking to bribe them with a dead horse and reveal their strength. “What are tsitsis?”

“Big wolves. Smart, can speak.”

“Then what is a warg?”

“Ahhh, warag.” In two syllables. “Big ones.” The elf raised his hand from the shoulder height of a tsitsi to that of a warg. “Not smart. But can ride like horse. All dead.” His first common phrase, learned from the other King himself!

“You know this?”

Another question that was not a question. Nag Kath thought hard and answered, “Tsitsis say yes, but can lie. Warags dead. Tsitsis live. Not know count … My Lord.”

“Nag Kath, thank you again for helping my men. Good fortune on your travels to Isengard.” The King ended the interview with a nod. Almost on cue, A’mash started heehawing outside for his forgotten dinner. 

Dornlas offered, “With your permission, Sire, I’ll escort your guest back to his duties.” There would be more ale in town tonight.

Éomer smiled at the young trooper, “Good work.”

_______________-------______________

“The King has oats?”

“No, Nag. We’ll take A’mash to the main stable. Follow me.”

The two young heroes strolled down the broad main road. At least, Dornlas felt that way. Nag Kath swiveled his head in all directions, taking things in.

The gangly trooper asked, “Where are you bunked?”

Nag Kath tilted his head in a way that reminded Dornlas of a sheep dog trying to understand a command. Dornlas tried again, “Where are you sleeping?”

“Oh. Do not know. Wagon five smells best.”

It fell to Sergeant Matelars to billet the Elf and he was busy. Dornlas mulled options as they made their way down the street. A’mash was hungry and tried to pull away when they passed window boxes or little gardens until Nag Kath barked sharply in a guttural, grating tongue that made the mule freeze in terror. For the rest of the walk, A’mash sulked and followed listlessly. Dornlas would dearly like to know how to chasten ornery mules but was sure that was a language men should never speak.

They arrived at the main paddock ten minutes later. A stable boy wasn’t sure he wanted to be anywhere near the towering changeling but did take the mule to a stall. The Kath’s reputation was spreading. Dornlas looked at wagon five and thought the Riddermark of Rohan should do better by Nag Kath. After all, this was the creature that slew a fell-wolf bare-handed and invented the Kath Bath! He could spot his friend a few coppers if the realm didn’t appreciate the Warg-slayer with cash. “Nag, get your pack and come with me. Have much money have you got?”

Nag Kath had been told not to reveal his purse but Dornlas was his friend.

The Elf answered, “Half a Florin ... maybe a little more.”

Dornlas grew-up on the bad end of this street and knew enough not to let his eyes bug out. He still exclaimed, “Half a ...! Where did you ever get that?”

When Nag Kath said ‘maybe a little more’, he wasn’t intentionally vague. He was working his fingers to add the other three silver tenths Timalen had sewn into his belt. When he finally did his sums, he answered Dornlas’ second question instead, “I paint and draw pictures. People buy them from me.”

The young trooper declared, “Well knock me over with a feather! Let’s get you a bed.” He wondered if a better question would be why someone who could disappear would not have a lot more. They made their way much further down the hill where the buildings were shabbier and closer together. Dornlas walked into a two-story house with a small desk next to the door. Seeing no one, he shouted up the stairs, “Mr. Tanlath! Are you here?”

A low, gravelly voice answered, “What do you want?”

“A room, unless you have retired to a life of leisure.”

A short, squat figure appeared at the top of the staircase and came down slowly, needing both feet for each step. The descent took some effort and he wheezed a little when he reached the floor. 

Mr. Tanlath was not a local. Nag Kath would not learn this until later but the boarding house owner was mostly Dunlending with a few other breeds thrown-in through the generations. Unlike the blonde and ginger Rohirrim, his hair had been very dark. What remained was artfully arranged across his head. Thin hair ran in Dornlas’ family too and he hoped he would not pretend if it came to that.

Most cities this size would have inns for traveling businessmen and officers to stay. There was nothing of the sort here. Those people stayed with friends or customers. But the occasional stranger did wander through and that trade was increasing with the King’s Peace. Mr. Tanlath ran the hostel with his wife until she wasted away some years ago. Their daughter, a simple, unfavored creature, managed to find a husband. She made his food and his babies. When guests were here, she cleaned.

“So, Ferd kick you out already?” the hosteller asked with a chuckle. He had known Dornlas since the boy was eight. It also implied the young trooper needed the room for himself. 

Unfortunately, he might. In a better world, Dornlas would just invite Nag Kath to stay at his sister’s home. In the world they had; neither of them was welcome. Her husband was a drunk and an unsuccessful thief. Tonight’s visit might only last a few hours, depending on Ferdan’s mood. The man fancied himself a rough fellow. As green as he looked, Dornlas was a battle-hardened trooper and could easily thrash his brother-in-law, but then the lout would just take it out on Dornlee. Sometimes she used fine silt paste to hide a black eye. It didn’t cover much better than Mr. Tanlath’s hair, but she didn’t want people feeling sorry for her. Bringing Nag Kath home would certainly cause a fight. 

Now there was a thought! 

The wrong word in the right ear and Dornlee would be free to pledge her heart to a new man whose own heart hadn’t just been ripped out by a wolf-rending demon. Dornlas liked the old hosteller very much but he still had to negotiate for his comrade. “Oh no, Mr. Tanlath. It is for my friend Nag Kath. We are returned after defending our wounded men from wargs. Even with so many places available, I thought I would bring him somewhere he would be well served for a couple nights.”

“Room 203 is available for five groats a night.”

Dornlas made a show of considering the offer. At least it was on the second floor. He turned to the Elf, “I don’t know, Nag. Maybe we should go back to the …”

Tanlath knew the game, “Of course, for a friend it would only be nine for two nights, payable in advance.”

Dornlas turned to the Elf, “Nag, he needs nine groats.”

The Elf looked a bit thick for a second. Then the flame brightened and he dug into his pocket producing two ten-groat coppers. Dornlas handed one to the innkeeper who made change which was handed back to Nag Kath, completing the deal.

Mr. Tanlath smiled and said, “Dornlas, show him up. Those stairs are hard on my old knees. You’re a good lad.” He meant it.

The hostel, which had no name, had not served meals since Mrs. Tanlath’s time so the Elf had to eat elsewhere. Dornlas took him upstairs with his pack and told him where he could get a bite. As he was leaving Nag Kath asked, “You go to your woman now?”

“Fraid not, Nag.” Dornlas headed down the stairs and reluctantly walked to his own family reunion.


	12. The Value of Groats

**_Chapter 12_ **

**_The Value of Groats_ **

In dying sun through an oiled-paper window, Nag Kath heaved his pack on the bed and took stock. The clothes he wore were much the worse for wear but he had a spare blouse and pair of socks. Kath Baths had ruined his shoes. The boots were still serviceable.

He counted his money. Most of it was kept in a pouch in the pack. On the trail he had learned a bit more about coinage. It was confusing for him because it was confusing for everyone. Rohan did not have its own currency. Most countries, including Rohan, used Gondoran coins based on Numenorean minting.

The standard was the gold Florin, a coin just over an inch and a quarter around by a bit over an eighth inch thick. That was a lot of money. A more common denomination was the quarter Florin. It was called a “nipper” because, like the Florin, it had a serrated edge that made chiseling the sides obvious. Reigning kings on the top of the coin changed through the years but the size and shape stayed constant. Many of those august Lords had dents in their faces from people biting the coins to check for counterfeits; ‘the poor man’s assay.’

Even nippers were rare in daily use. Practical money started with the castar or silver tenth. It was a shade under an inch around by a tenth-inch thick. At one time, twenty of them would make a Florin but with the discovery of rich silver mines in the Misty Mountains eight hundred years ago, the value plummeted. Now it took ten of them to make a nipper. 

The price of gold also collapsed briefly three generations past when the Dwarves reclaimed Erebor from the dragon Smaug. Massive gold stores were reluctantly shared with Elves and Men after a fierce battle. Merchants throughout Middle Earth were sure the supply would flood the market and gold values fell sharply. After a few years, the Dwarves and Elves spent little more than the dragon and prices recovered.

At the bottom of the range was the humble copper groat. These came in tiny single, five, ten and, rarely, twenty groat sizes. At current rates, it took seventeen hundred groats to make a Florin. Since the relationship between gold, silver and copper changed and varied by region, commerce in all but piddling sums was done by weight. Most merchants kept a balance scale with their wares and a small stone counterweight to compare with the other party's for veracity. They also needed scales since coins were often broken to make change. Dwarf coins were similar but had to be weighed as well.

Money was not very important in Rohan at the upper levels of society. More was always better, but the real measure of wealth among horse-lords was property and livestock. Most transactions were done in barter. Family holdings seldom changed hands except through marriage. That contrasted with Gondor whose mercantile, shipping and financial interests paid and received cash. Land and livestock traded like Rohan but did not dominate the diverse economy.

That made Edoras a poor national capital. People who had farms and grasslands stayed there along with the families who worked for them. Nobles often kept small homes here for state occasions but the year-round city population was largely un-landed and served the soldiery or worked in cottage industries. One did not distinguish himself by living here except for the royals whose hereditary lands were scattered about the country. Now that Rohan was not fighting anybody, cash was needed to maintain defenses. All men could be called to arms without pay during war, but with the orcs slain, it took money for troopers like Dornlas to ferry the wounded back home. Sergeant Matelars would dole out their groats tomorrow. 

Nag Kath knew none of this. The last thing he did before dinner was open his leather art tube. By luck, none of the paper had molded. He hadn’t even tried to draw on the trail, what with his important position and all. This city had a lot of interesting faces. He would capture some of them tonight.

_______________-------______________

The tavern Dornlas suggested for dinner was only four doors down the street from the hostel. Now sundown, the room was filling quickly. Those mostly eating were more to one side. Drinkers went to the other which had a long bar. Dornlas knew Nag Kath’s tastes and thought they might be able to manage something without flesh. He enjoyed fish from the Anduin and camping along the Mering. The Falcon’s Lair usually had the bottom fish with faces like house-cats. A middle-aged woman waited on him but asked no questions. New arrivals gave him long looks.

Dinner was good and so was the Rohan red beer which was more robust than the brews to the south. He nursed his and when his plate was cleared he took out some paper and pencils. A trio of older gents was having an animated discussion about matters at hand – just the sort of scene Nag Kath loved. He started drawing the lines but punched his pencil through the paper into a declaration of eternal love carved into his table. Shifting his chair to a smoother surface, he brought the men to life. Two thirds of the way through, a young woman walked up to his table and proclaimed, “You don’t look like an orc!”

He was absorbed in his sketch and hadn’t noticed her but he looked up and was pleasantly surprised. She was young and quite pretty, and rather bold to approach a stranger in a public house. “People keep telling me that.” He closed with one of his best grins. “I am Nag Kath.”

“Everyone knows who you are. I’m Kateen.”

Hmmm, sounds a lot like Kataleese. Perhaps such women have similar needs … “Please sit down, Kateen.” She did. Nag Kath signaled the barmaid for another red but the woman went to Kateen’s table instead and fetched her mug.

“They say you killed a pack of wargs with your bare hands!”

This was going well. It had been quite a while. In his halting, aw-shucks drawl, “Only one. The others run away.” She really was lovely. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

Nag Kath reassured, “Just for a minute.” Then sternly, “no peeking!”

She did, but he could see her straining every impulse to look. He flipped the paper over and did a very quick sketch of her. As usual with women, she was captured as beautifully as she would ever be. He took some artistic liberty in bringing the sheen up on her lips and omitting a soot-smudge along her jaw.

Kateen was fidgeting, “Hurry, I can’t stand this!”

“One more moment. Now, you look.”

Her reaction was the same as all who saw themselves drawn by his hand. She made a soft “O” with her mouth and her eyes sparkled. He handed her the paper. Kateen was no Kataleese. She rose with a girlish curtsy and ran to show her friends. They looked at her, him and her again several times. One of her friends flipped the paper. Turning to the bar he called to the three men, “Uncle Bose! You’ve lost a chin!”

It was too good to be true. She could only be so forward surrounded by chaperones. Her biggest risk was a scolding when she got home. To great acclaim, Nag Kath couldn’t buy a drink at the Falcon’s Lair. If he was an Uruk, he was a good ‘un! Kateen brought the picture back to his table and he finished the three men with fresh pitchers all round.

A new feeling swept over him. If there would be no passion tonight, he might still do some good with this. He announced, “Now I must go pay Dornlas his money.”

The crowd collectively wondered; Dornlas? A good apple from a bad tree. The Elf expanded, “Yes, half a Florin. He was there with warags! He is very brave!” Dornlas actually helped him stretch stained blankets over the wagon hoops but there was no need to mention that just now. A lad too young to drink said he would be glad to run down to Dornlee’s and fetch him. 

Quastille taught Nag Kath not to close the transaction too soon so he shook his head and replied gravely, “No, he is with family. Must not disturb.” 

Everyone in the room knew tearing Dornlas from the bosom of his family was a mercy. The young lad was quick on the uptake and offered, “Maybe he can steal away for a pint to celebrate,” and stared at Nag Kath until the warg-slayer nodded.

A quarter-bell later the boy and his new hero walked in the tavern. Nag Kath waved him over and one of the patrons gave up his chair. Things hadn’t gone that badly at Dornlee’s but the offer of a beer came at just the right time. Before Dornlas could ask any questions, Nag Kath drew his purse from a pocket and handed it to the astonished trooper saying, “Thank you for loan. Half Florin. It is all there.”

Dornlas was gob-smacked. The Elf continued as if it was an afterthought, “Oh, this is Kateen. Kateen, this is my friend Dornlas.” They had known each other since she was five. He was deployed in Snowbourne when the Uruks marched so they hadn’t traveled together to Helm’s Deep. In the two years since they last met, she had matured. Someone slid her picture under his face and he instantly fell in love. Dornlas’ fortunes had risen considerably. Obviously a man of modest means and a certified war hero to boot, she looked at him with fresh eyes.

Work done, Nag Kath rose with an affected yawn and proclaimed, “Well, must rise early. Go to Helm’s Deep.”

Dornlas snapped out of his fantasy, “They aren’t going tomorrow, Nag. Wagon five’s got a busted axle.”

This was news. The Elf simply said, “Then I will see you in the morning” and made for the door. Dornlas watched him go and whispered, “Thank you.”

_______________-------______________

The changeling rose just before dawn and strolled to the paddock where the back end of wagon five was propped on a barrel. His Elf eyes could make out the broken part but he didn’t know an axle from a neck yoke. The men who could would arrive with the light.

He walked over to A’mash and started rubbing the mule behind the ear like the teamsters did. A’mash had forgotten his scolding but a horse two stalls over shied. Nag Kath eased his way to the other side of A’mash, careful to avoid getting behind any hooves. They kicked when they had the chance.

A’mash was a gray jack with long eye lashes. Average sized and around seven years old, he was in his prime for both strength and knowing the traces. Somehow, the four mules in the train had no problem with Nag Kath. He brought them grass. Silence was best. Mule talk was evidently different than tsitsi, judging by yesterday. When he thought about it, berating the poor beast in the tongue of murderous wolves was not the best way to start a friendship.

At first light, the cartwright arrived and saw him standing in the gloom. “So you’re the rascal! I’ve seen Uruks closer than I cared for and you don’t look anything like them!” 

Nag Kath put him at about forty-five. Unlike most men of Rohan, he wore only a bushy moustache and clean shaved the rest once a week. Maybe it got too close to the forge. “I am glad you think so!”

The workman filed reports of monstrous powers as silly camp gossip. “You were going out today?”

“Yes. To Helm’s Deep.”

“It will take me till afternoon to mill a new axle and fit it tight. You won’t make it over the Snowbourne if you leave that late.” 

He explained that Nag Kath couldn’t take just any wagon to the fortress. That track was not a road. Number five was the only two-animal rig in the original train with springs supporting the box – made from some southern wood; they were. That made it less bone-jarring. Nag Kath needed to clean it less so that made sense. A’mash was one of the team. Mr. Woromid would still have to add extra braces to get it there in one piece. Nag Kath thanked him and walked out of the barn well away from any hooves pointed his way.

He wasn’t hungry after a full meal of fish and vegetables the night before so he strolled. There were few flat places anywhere and none of any size. People were already up about their business. The plan was to be at the stable at dawn. Everyone knew that but him, so the Sergeant was the man to ask. Now, where was he? 

Troopers were assembling at the stable side of the horse compound. The changeling walked up to them and asked about Matelars. They looked him up and down as the infamous Warg-slayer, decided he was not an orc and pointed towards the western wall of the long city. The general direction was as much as they knew.

It was a start. Fifteen minutes later he had reached the end. The log fortress wall served as the exterior of last row of houses so this was as far as you could get in the city. Strict laws forbade weakening them inside your home with windows or doors. An old woman covered in black woolens was husking corn on her porch. He walked over and got a suspicious stare for his trouble. “I am Nag Kath. Do you know Sergeant Matelars?”

Word of the Elvish beast or even returning wounded hadn’t reached her. “Matelars, eh? He’s back is he? Matelars start six doors down on that side.” pointing across the lane “Take your pick. Can’t help you past that.” Her knowledge exhausted, she went back to shucking ears that were likely doomed for some revolting stew.

Nag Kath knocked on the sixth door. A tousled and scantily draped woman opened the door wide and blinked in the daylight. When she realized he was not her overdue soldier, she pulled her gown closer around her shoulders but didn’t slam the door. Nag Kath asked politely, “Sergeant Matelars?”

“He’s back? One house down.” She gave the Elf a lingering look but still shut the door.

The next woman looked a lot like the first. Rounder and fully-dressed, she assessed the Elf and said, “So, you’re the one.” A shy lad of about five peered around the staircase. He would look just like his da with more years in the sun. She shouted upstairs, “Laur … company!”

After some thumping and snapping, the sergeant walked down the stairs in only his trousers and suspenders. Nag Kath bowed.

“I told you Nag, you only bow to officers!”

The difference still escaped him. The usually gritty man looked like he’d had a Kath Bath! His hair was washed at least. “What can I do for you, Nag?”

“Tell me not go today. When go?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess Luka didn’t find you. Yeah, the wagon needs a new axle. It looks like tomorrow.”

Nag Kath would never mention this to an officer, or a sergeant, but the man looked more cheerful than usual – a fine distinction, mind you. The Elf knew nothing of the wealth of Rohan. Their third national treasure was sons. The Matelars had been doing their duty. 


	13. Forgiveness

**_Chapter 13_ **

**_Forgiveness_ **

Well, he was an artist. There were sweeping vistas across the flood plain. Nag Kath walked back to the rooming house and collected his leather tube. In Edoras, the higher you went, the better the view so he started climbing towards the King.

The great hall of Meduseld was perched on a small hill. Three sets of stairs led up different sides and met in a central courtyard tier before a single stair continued to the hall. That was where the first guards protected the King. Almost everyone used the middle stairs which were shortest and closest to the entrance. The stairs to the right were steeper and zigzagged up with benches at the switchbacks for people to rest or enjoy the view. Nag Kath worked his way to the highest landing. The guards saw him but he was not their concern unless he continued to their station. Finding the flattest flagstone, he rolled a sheet of the heavy aroney paper backwards to keep it from curling and studied the vista.

It was quite a sight! Before committing pencil to paper, he closed his eyes and imagined his purpose. Quastille told him you can’t catch everything from this far away. Add too much detail and the grandeur is lost. Shadows would define this work. Clouds were rolling in from the east. Not heavy enough to rain but they might give him better contrasts across the plain.

He started sketching – working quickly. Most artists would have hatched the paper into quadrants or eighths and rough them in separately to keep the scale. The Elf didn’t think that way. It was almost as if he burned the image onto the paper with his eyes and filled in the lines.

An hour later, it was done except shading. It was time for a stretch. The guards at the next landing could see him clearly but men higher or further south could not while his back was to the wall. As he rose he heard, “Nag Kath! Shouldn’t you be on your way to the Deep?”

It was Captain Altheras standing on the Meduseld porch with King Éomer and another man in armor. They must be officers so he bowed. The Captain embraced his King as a brother and then both men bowed formally to each other. After Éomer returned to the hall, Nag Kath shouted, “Not go today. Wagon broke.”

“What are you doing here?”

He held up his drawing. 

The Marshal couldn’t see anything from that distance and called, “I’m coming down.” He was leaving the hall, not arriving. Altheras climbed in his bearer chair and was carried to the central landing. Nag Kath stowed his materials in the tube and followed the path to join him. The Captain was certainly an officer. After another bow, Nag Kath repeated, “Wagon broke. Go tomorrow they say.”

“Can’t be helped. Have you eaten?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Follow me.”

Nag Kath kept behind the chair for the rest of the way. Then the bearers helped the Marshal into the saddle of a different horse than the Lord rode from Gondor. The former Uruk kept a respectful distance. Scaring a horse into dumping such a man would not reflect well. This horse seemed less skittish than most and Nag Kath was able to stay almost eight feet away as they worked their way to a row of houses near the eastern wall. These were better kept than in Matelar’s district and considerably nicer than near the Falcon’s Lair.

“I’m glad for the chance to thank you, Nag Kath. We didn’t know what to make of you but you proved your worth.”

He didn’t get most of that but it was praise so he thanked the Lord. And Altheras was indeed a Lord – the hereditary Captain of the Landsdown Brigade or their older name; Eorl’s Men Militia. The King had his own permanent company now, but the historic troop would be called that as long as there was a Rohan.

Rohan’s political system was as different from Gondor as its economy. Kings did not have absolute power like in Gondor or, even more so, in the southern and eastern dictatorships. The King of Rohan was first among equals. Captains and Lords must defer to his decisions but they got their say. That Dornlas wasn’t cleaning stalls right now after interrupting the King showed the respect they bore all men who carried a lance into danger.

In this vast, under-populated country, the only uniting theme was the military. The King was the fighting head of the army. Abdications were more common here because Kings and Lords led from the front. If a man felt he could no longer do his duty with honor, there was no shame in passing the mantle to a son or other family member who could. Former kings were honored and participated in matters of state to the extent they could or were wanted. That wasn’t always voluntary. The Council of Lords had rarely and reluctantly supported men who were better prepared. The more common practice was for lords to declare their heirs Marshal of the district and retain civil authority. King Theoden had been easing his son Theodred into that role before Saruman’s sorcery.

Altheras and the Elf arrived at the Captain’s town-home five minutes later. His primary residence was on his estates to the east but most of the high council owned or shared smaller apartments near the palace. Aides helped him down and gave him his crutch. “Come in!” he beckoned. 

A plump, maid with rosy cheeks approached and curtsied. “Mai, I could eat a horse.” a fearful expression in this country, but still used. “This is Nag Kath.” Another curtsy. “He will be joining her Ladyship and me for breakfast.”

“Yes, my Lord,” followed by a bow and quick retreat.

Altheras led the way and Nag Kath patiently matched the Captain’s pace.

They approached a long table in the largest room of the small home with the best window light. A woman of about the captain’s age was already seated on the side next to the head but had been served only tea. It smelled wonderful.

“My dear, this is Nag Kath. I told you a little of him last night.” 

Lady Altheras was still a beauty. The skin was tighter against her cheeks and her blonde hair showed considerable gray, but she would have been a prize when this match was made. Her mouth reminded the Elf of the Lady Arwen. It could smile or be pursed but was generally neutral. Of course, how much anyone smiled depended on how many teeth they had.

Nag Kath bowed to Lady Altheras as she asked. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Kath. Won’t you be seated?” Her teeth looked fine. Her Lord sat next to her at the head of the table. This had to be unexpected but noble families took surprise guests in stride or, at least, discussed them later privately. She knew her husband had a purpose. 

Lady Altheras had borne her husband two sons and three daughters. One son fell years ago in battle. One daughter died bearing her first child. The others were well on their way to noble destinies. They were a happy couple who had weathered the storms that came with joining two great houses and loved each other very much.

Breakfast arrived. There was a steaming bowl of yellow curds that smelled interesting. Warm bread was served with different yellow pats melting into the surface. Cups were filled with tea. A plate of meats was included and finally some greens in a separate bowl.

The couple followed the country tradition of serving portions at the table onto each diner’s plate. Nag Kath did not help himself to any meat but took plenty of everything else. He watched her Ladyship dip a wooden spoon in a small mug and pull it out covered in a thick golden liquid that she dripped over her bread. He felt he could manage that now that he’d seen it done. The big mystery was the yellow globules. He heaped a respectable spoonful on his plate but had no idea what it was. The noble couple used their forks to eat it so he did too.

The first bite stayed in his mouth an eternity. Finally he chewed and swallowed. It was good. That could have gone either way. He would ask someone else what it was later. He also got the honey mostly on the toast and it was good too. Everything was good. He could get used to this.

Nag Kath finished chewing and said, “My Lord, I have that drawing here.” He unwound the lanyard holding the end of his tube. In most courts and high houses of Middle Earth, that motion might have earned foreigners a spear in the throat. Altheras didn’t see the need for that kind of security in his own home. Plenty of people had had the chance to kill him and hadn’t managed yet.

Her ladyship thought she had misunderstood her husband. Yesterday he spoke of a warrior who slew a fell beast as in bygone legends. Had he mentioned an itinerant artist too?

Nag Kath unrolled the paper in front of the couple with the usual effect. They were mesmerized. Most art, and all art supported or owned by ranking persons, was done in ritual style. Hills and mountains were always the same color so people knew what they were. Trees were always in bloom. Nobody was fat. Nobody was bald. They all had long smooth fingers with no knuckles unless gripping a sword. They certainly never smiled. This vista was as if they had walked out their door. Nag Kath signed the picture at the bottom and said, “You keep.”

Altheras looked intently for several minutes and then looked at Nag Kath. This could not be coincidence! He had visited the King to formally name his son Banalt as the new Captain of the Landsdown Brigade. They walked out on the porch for what would probably be the last time to share this very view before the new Capt'n went inside with the King for his commission. And now that vista was here for all time. His Lordship had underestimated this creature yet again.

The Captain said, “Nag Kath, I hope you don’t mind me asking again but I would very much like to know how you slew that warg. I see it over and over again in my mind and cannot fathom it.”

Her ladyship wasn’t confused. This was the sorcerous being.

“I move fast. Fast …” he rephrased “So fast cannot see when my blood is up. All things stop, but not me. Tsitsi … no, warg still in air, I move to side.” He used his hands to show the beast frozen at head height. “Stab him with arm. Only weapon I have.” with a small grin. “Take arm out, time starts, warg goes past, he dead.”

Altheras was listening intently. He was about to repeat Dornlas’ description of walking up the hill with only his cod but considered his Lady Wife’s sensibilities. “And you went up there with no weapon. You must have relied on these powers to defeat the brutes!”

“Oh no. I hope, but not sure. Only third time! I tell them to leave my friends alone.”

The Captain was shaken. Here was a creature who had risked death for men who ridiculed him. He did it because it was everything he could do. 

Her ladyship asked, “You are going to see Gandalf?”

The Elf became very quiet. He had been on trial for his life at least twice already. Orthanc would probably be the third. 

“Yes, my Lady. He will decide.” Nag Kath grinned remembering being told Gandalf might turn him into a toad.

“Nag Kath ...” said the Lord with gravitas, “... I saw you have no sword. A warrior needs a sword to protect those he loves.” 

The hereditary Captain called an attendant, a military man, and whispered in his ear. The man whispered a question back. Altheras nodded and the retainer left. No one said a word until he returned carrying a sword in its scabbard with the traditional grip and guard of the Rohan cavalry weapon. It had seen service.

“This sword was presented to me by King Thengel after the battle of Dellanos. I carry my own inherited from my father as has been our way since anyone can remember. My younger son will not need it now ...” holding back tears, “... I hope you will accept it against the dangers you face.”

Nag Kath did not understand all of that but he knew he had been greatly honored. He recalled a painting or tapestry in the Provin Gallery of a knight accepting a similar weapon by bowing his head and holding the sword high at arm’s length. That he did.

“Please excuse us now. My lady and I must repair to the country after my long absence. We wish you the best.”

Nag Kath stood, stored his pictures in the tube and reverentially picked-up the blade. He looked on the hilt, bowed as an honored man and left the home walking on air.

_______________-------______________

Back in his room, Nag Kath stared at the sword in his lap. It meant a great deal to him. Rather, the gesture did. He had been forgiven. Not his kind and the terrible wreckage they caused. Him. Alone. The very last one.

It was a stronger version of the feeling he had when he decided to help his friend Dornlas the night before. Most importantly, it was a necessary step in his development – a step that could have gone quite wrong.

In his foul bargain with Sauron, Saruman needed to create an army very fast. Even the short breeding cycle of common orcs was not enough. The wizard had to manufacture warriors. In doing so, he used substances of earth and water and grew them almost like tadpoles with cuttings from Sauron’s Uruk-hai. They emerged from their fell stews full-sized and ready to train. The drawback was that they would only live about six years, still more than enough time to achieve their dark purpose.

Saruman also crafted their brains. They must learn quickly but not too much. They must only fear their superiors but never death. And they must hate with all their being. All other emotional capability was excised. When his design was good enough to produce en-mass, the Isengard Uruk-hai were a complete fighting instrument. It was only a matter of adjusting the formulas for different uses.

Then, in an astonishing act of stupidity, Saruman marched his entire army against an outpost with no strategic value hoping to catch King Theoden and his court off-guard. He failed as miserably as possible, losing every soldier under his flag. Even if he had reduced Helm’s Deep to its last babe, the bulk of the Rohirrim cavalry was already forming in the provinces and could have outflanked his infantry to their doom. Or Rohan’s horsemen could simply trap them in Helm’s Deep and listen to them eat each other. Everyone agreed Saruman could be the very soul of terror, but he was a miserable strategist.

What no one could have anticipated was that there would be a single survivor and that in the absence of the dark Lord, he would revert to the original Elvish stock Morgoth co-opted thousands of years before. Alone, in the dark, over a year of pain, the Elf in him drove out the orc. Every cell in his body changed except for a small ‘6’ tattooed on his neck. He emerged from the gaol with the body of a perfect Elf. He still had small cunning and could learn quickly.

What he did not have were emotions. The fear and hate Saruman physically imprinted in his orc brain were gone. He had the vastly improved mind of an Elf but it was virtually empty. Emotions and feelings can only be created by experience. By blind luck, his first experiences after complete blackness were awe and wonder at the beauty he absorbed wandering through a palace. Now completing his transition, what he did and saw and felt informed how he viewed his world.

In the last twelve hours, he had given things that meant very little to him in exchange for much, much more. He gave Dornlas money he earned doing something he enjoyed in hopes that someone who had been kind to him might prosper. The sword in his lap represented forgiveness. He was not a horror. 

Nag Kath felt a tear drip down his cheek. Then another. They would not stop. He sobbed for ten minutes without understanding why. Logic reasserted itself and he dried his face with his sleeve. Shortly afterwards he heard Dornlas calling to him from the first floor. He shouted, “Come up.”

The young trooper took the steps two at a time. At the threshold he said, “I’m glad I caught you. Here’s your money.” Dornlas had wrestled with that decision not knowing if the gift was for show. In the end, he decided he would ask first.

Nag Kath smiled at him and said, “No, you keep coins. You have new start.”

Dornlas didn’t have to be told twice but he was glad he checked. Then he said, “Wagon five won’t be going to Helm’s Deep at all.” The Elf gave him a blank look that Dornlas now understood to be thinking rather than the lack of it. “Jarrie’s family is already here in Edoras and Denomath got word that his wife might have left the Westfold. That’s a long ride if no one is home. He’ll stay with Darwes until they get word.”

Nag Kath sat on the bed and growled, “Good! I will go to Helm’s Deep alone.”

“No Nag. The Deep’s no good for you. All your people died there and too many of mine. They will kill you for sport. If you are going to Isengard, you stay on the road and don’t go anywhere near the forest.”

Nag Kath considered that for a moment and then stood to remove his belt. Sitting back down he opened his quill-knife and sliced the top seam to extract a silver tenth. Dornlas wondered if he had taken the Elf’s last groat but between that silver and a handsome new sword, he wasn’t turning his friend out in the snow.

Nag Kath stared up at him, “How much to buy A’mash?!”

_______________-------______________

The rough plan was that Dornlas would get A’mash and Nag Kath should buy supplies at two stores. He needed a canteen, oats, a frying pan, some dried fish strips if he could find them, salt and a block of cheese with wax around it.

Dornlas strolled to the stable where Mr. Woromid was still fitting the axle on wagon five. “Hello Tomad.”

Woromid looked up. With his huge moustache and bushy eyebrows it was hard to tell his expression but he responded with a hearty, “Dornlas! Heard you was back! Is that your bay in stall fourteen?”

“Sorry, I lost her. I’ve got the roan. Think he’s in seven.”

“Eight. He’s had his fill of oats but you’ll have to brush him out yourself.”

With the same smile he kept throughout, Dornlas said, “Maybe later. I wanted to tell you that wagon won’t be needed. The men are going to stay here. One of the mules goes to the Elf who came by, but I’d imagine that wagon is now property of the King.”

Woromid needed a moment to think. He didn’t have official permission to release a mule to this lad’s custody, but he didn’t have much use for an ass with a Gondor brand in any case. Mules were much more common in Gondor where they carried goods unloaded from boats and ships along the Anduin. In Rohan, cartage was done by draft horses or oxen. 

On the much more positive side, that was the only sprung wagon in Edoras. He would study it closely. If he could find a wood that would take the beating of that dark southern timber, people would buy these things.

“Fair enough, young man. Take any mule you want. There’s a pack frame hanging near the tack pegs. You come back and visit me when you have time.” With a wave, Woromid continued rasping the axle shaft where it fit the mounting. 

Nag Kath’s adventures went well too although a young woman in the dry goods store was horrified to have the warg-slayer here with her alone. She locked him in the showroom and ran home to fetch her father. Five minutes later, the front door flew open. Father and daughter found the Elf deciding between two bars of soap. He had a small pile of other goods on the counter. Unfazed by the panic, he looked at the merchants with a smile and said, “And twenty pounds of oats, please.”

They were so shocked that they didn’t overcharge him.

Dornlas and A’mash met Nag Kath at the main Gate on the east side of the compound. That continued the Great West Road and had the only serviceable bridge over the Snowbourne. 

Nag Kath held the trooper by his shoulders and smiled. “You have woman now?”

“It’s not that easy Nag. I was invited to dinner on Wednesday. That’s a start.”

The Elf said, “I come back, you have babies!”

“Maybe. You just remember to stay clear of that forest.” With a nod, Nag Kath turned and led A’mash towards the bridge. 

_______________-------______________

After hauling wagons across roads barely worthy of the name, A’mash thought carrying a light pack at a man’s pace was heaven. At first the Elf held his lead but within a few hours, he just let him walk along. The mule didn’t know it but Nag Kath was faster than him. There would be plenty of fodder when it came time for a break. The mule was tempted to dine along the road until a wolfish growl convinced him otherwise.

There had been little towns dotting the route but they were all destroyed by Wildmen or orcs in the last war. Nag Kath wondered why an Uruk-hai brigade like his hadn’t put Edoras to the torch when the citizens fled this way. Theoden was said to have left a small detachment to defend, but even the hapless Uruks could have burned an empty wooden city.

Elf and mule made good time. He walked faster than a man and only stopped for water or to let A’mash graze. He could also see a lot longer in fading light than men so they didn’t make camp until almost full dark. Nag Kath found plenty of berries and apples from abandoned orchards so no dinner was required. It wasn’t until the next morning that he realized he hadn’t bought any matches or flint to cook his oats. They didn’t taste much worse raw.

The next day was more leisurely. Nag Kath found a pool on the mountain side of the road and took a dip to wash off a week of accumulated grime. A’mash watched without comment. They made camp near the ruins of a little town. People, farmers, he thought, were rebuilding some of the homes but they hid when he approached. The men were working again at dawn after they had a chance to see him in the light.

Up early, they had already been on the road for an hour when they came across a platoon of nine Rohirrim breaking camp on their return to Edoras. Nag Kath waved and said hello. A large, mostly-dressed man walked his way and said, “And a good morning to you. Who might you be?”

“I am Nag Kath.”

The fellow considered that and asked, “And what brings you this way, Mr. Kath?” As it happened, and would happen many times again, Nag Kath’s hair was not of Elvish length and covered his ears. Dressed like a peddler, most took him for an outsized youngster.

“You can call me Nag Kath.” When that answer didn’t fill the requirement, he added, “I go to Isengard to see Gandalf.”

The big man mulled that over as another trooper joined him. Then he asked, “Have you been on the road long?”

“Yes, I come from Gondor with many wounded Rohirrim. The last, they say. They stay in Edoras and I go on.

Just then, both men noticed the Rohan dress sword strapped to the outside of the mule pack. The trooper said, “My, that’s a handsome weapon! Where did you get it?”

By now, Nag Kath knew this wasn’t idle chat. He did not know it but these soldiers had just completed their last sweep of the Westfold as far as the Isen and into the hills looking for remnants of Dunlending militias. The old men said winter would be early so this was a good time to not be in the mountains looking for fighters who weren’t there.

“Captain Altheras gave to me.”

A third man, now fully clothed, joined the party and spat, “You lie! I saw him go down on the Pelennor.”

Unconcerned, the Elf responded, “He has a wood leg but he came with us. He can ride now. He give this to me when I don’t have one.”

The big man again; “Who led?”

“Sergeant Matelars.”

The lad was no villain. If they didn’t know the Sergeant, they knew of him. A man finishing his breakfast shouted, “Isn’t he married to that crazy woman?”

Another at the fire said, “No, that’s her sister.”

The big man turned to the campfire and snarled, “Enough of that!” A man’s business was his own.

“Aye, Corporal.”

A young trooper near the fire called over, “Say, I don’t suppose Inold Tevaran was with you?”

Nag Kath moved a few steps to see around the Corporal and replied, “Yes, Ino come. Cannot ride, but he come in the wagons. His sister takes him home.” Trooper Tevaran was ready to mount and ride until their horses dropped. His brother was back. There was nothing more to say.

The Corporal softened his tone, “Thank you for bringing our men home, Mr. Kath. You have a safe trip to Isengard and keep to the main road.” The men had broken down the tents as he questioned the traveler. “All right lads, let’s get this loaded and be on our way.”


	14. Wizardry

**_Chapter 14_ **

**_Wizardry_ **

At any time in history, the turn to Helm's Deep would have been a simple country crossroads. It was much wider now for being trampled by thousands of Uruk-hai feet, all pointed in one direction, never having returned. Two years of weather had restored some of the fragile grasses, but the land had not forgotten.

The next day Nag Kath camped due east of the Fords of Isen. Turning west would take him across the river to Dunland. There were roads on either side of the river leading to the little valley of Isengard which made sense because it was a treacherous river to cross, even now in autumn. 

They reached a road leading east just before climbing into the mountains. He remembered it well. That was his path to ambush the Fellowship. A couple hours before sunset, they saw the gates of Orthanc, or rather, where the gates used to be. Nag Kath remembered the place as a foul, smoldering waste of metal-working, completely devoid of plants.

Orthanc was beautiful! Somehow, full-grown trees were thriving where only mud had been before. Shrubs and grass grew as if they always had. Almost all of the Dunlending and slave quarters were removed, the exception being a small shanty-town along what had been the outer wall. A well worn trail led from it to several open pits inside the fortress with large frames built around them.

Nag Kath left A’mash in a grassy area just to the left of the main entrance and walked to the base of the steps. Just outside he was met by a short, powerful man dressed in the uniform of Rohan militia. The lapel gorget was unfamiliar, but they had a lot of them. The stout fellow belied his fearsome look and said affably, “Good day, sir. How can we help you?”

“I am Nag Kath. I come to see Gandalf.”

“You don’t say?” A rain shower matted the changeling’s hair so his pointed ears were showing. Visiting Elves, however badly dressed, were welcome at Orthanc. The guard flagged one of two boys playing in the courtyard and said, “Coran, there’s a good lad. Go tell Gandalf an Elf is here to see him.” 

The boy replied, “Yes, Mr. Tolander” and scampered up the steps to the double doors. 

The guard turned back to Nag Kath and offered, “It takes a while to get up those stairs. There’s a little stream over by your mule if either of you needs a drink.”

Nag Kath thanked him and walked past A’mash who followed him to a clear rivulet of snow-melt. That hadn’t been here before. In fact, none of the streams looked like they did before. His head jerked up towards the dam, or what was the dam. There were still a few of the posts that had held the penstock pipes but the rest of the spillway had been wiped clean.

Refreshed, he took an envelope from his art tube and made his way back to Mr. Tolander. Sooner than he expected, a voice yelled something Elvish down from the tower. Elf and soldier looked up to see an elderly man leaning over a balcony. Undaunted, Nag Kath shouted in the common speech, “I do not speak that tongue, my Lord.”

The old man looked at him for a few moments. From this distance, Nag Kath thought the codger probably couldn’t see any better than Captain Altheras in front of the Meduseld. He was wrong. Gandalf called in Westron, “Tolander, bring him up. Ask Mendos to join us.” His head disappeared and the two entered the great hall.

Nag Kath had never been inside the castle. Once you were spawned and armored, you left the pits for training areas further up the valley. It seemed bigger inside than one imagined from outside. Tolander trudged up the winding staircase. Gandalf’s quarters and workshop were on the tenth floor. By the fifth, poor Trooper Tolander was breathing hard. The Elf had to shuffle his steps so as not to leave the man behind. At the ninth floor, the trooper gasped, “Wait here.” Then he turned towards an open door and shouted, “Mendos, we’re wanted upstairs. Mendos! Get a move on.”

From the room a waking voice yelled back, “He’s getting a page from the scratchers. What is it?”

Tolander said as calmly as he could, “Gandalf wants us to see his guest to the tenth.” His soft tone was a warning.

A tall, raw-boned man with a thick beard and thinning hair rounded the doorjamb in his trousers and undershirt. Were it not for the beard he would show a disfiguring scar from ear to chin. 

If Mendos was the biggest fighter of Gandalf’s guards, Legatorn of Arnor was the toughest. Gandalf would not have asked for two guards, particularly Mendos, unless this guest was dangerous. If so, Legatorn was an excellent substitute. The soldier looked the Elf up and down before returning to his room. A minute later, he had his blouse and boots on. With Legatorn in front and Tolander behind, the three went up one more flight. 

The raw-boned trooper knocked on a large, oaken door three times and called, “It’s Legatorn and Tolander with your guest.”

“Come in.”

The soldiers flanked Nag Kath to either side. Gandalf was sitting at a huge plank of wood that was both desk and work table. It was almost covered in stacks of papers and manuscripts. The old wizard was exactly as described but without his fabled hat, reading something that held his interest. Nag Kath walked to the correct military distance from an officer’s desk of three of his paces and stood more-or-less at attention.

Gandalf finished his page and finally looked up at his guest saying in Sindarin, “This is grand! It is always nice to have Elvish visitors.”

“I am sorry my Lord. I speak common talk. I am Nag Kath.”

Gandalf leaned back in his chair and continued in that language, “Very well. What brings you to Isengard, my lad?”

“King Elassar send me.”

Gandalf brightened, “Ah! Did the King give you something for me?”

Nag Kath took the thick packet from his jacket and started to approach the wizard when he was deftly intercepted by Tolander who said with a smile, “Let me, Mr. Kath.”

The soldier handed the envelope to the wizard. There was no doubt. It had the royal seals of Arnor and Gondor, a little the worse from travel but both intact. The seals were so large and impressive that Gandalf had to hold them against the edge of his desk and press hard to break them. Inside were three smaller packets. He read the description on the largest and set it aside. The second was from a friend in Minas Tirith which he would also read later. 

The third was a single sheet of heavy folded paper, unsealed, with Gandalf’s oldest name, Orórin, written in ancient Elvish Quenya on the outside. It was in the King’s own hand.

**_My dearest Orórin,_ **

**_It has been too long. I hope your efforts bring you peace._ **

**_The fellow presenting this is Nag Kath. We reliably believe he was one of the Uruk-hai Saruman sent to attack the Fellowship. He was imprisoned in a hidden dungeon here in the White City for over a year. When he was remembered, this is what was emerged. His hard transition began the instant Sauron was destroyed. My Lady Arwen suspects he may be Sauron himself escaped in Elvish form again._ **

**_Against my better judgment I freed him to start a new life as an artist. That went well until a few days ago when he was attacked by three soldiers. According to witnesses, he disappeared from one place and reappeared in another while beating his foes._ **

**_This is sorcery unknown to me. It does not seem Elvish. I have sent him north with a convoy of returning Rohirrim wounded for your appraisal. Despite his origin he is a charming fellow, but I will defer to your expertise._ **

**_The large packet includes reports on our rebuilding effort. Things are going well. My Lady and I both miss you. In hopes we meet again before your voyage,_ **

**_Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor_ **

****

Gandalf slowly placed the letter down with the others and looked quite differently at his guest. He said in the common tongue, “Let us speak Elvish.” Knowing his men would not notice, he slipped into the Black Speech of Mordor, “ ** _The King says you are Uruk-hai from here. Is that so?"_**

The words sounded harsh and alien but it was his native tongue. “ ** _Hoch_**.”

Gandalf continued, “ ** _And you changed. Are you in pain?_** ”

Nag Kath told the truth, “ ** _Small. It comes and goes._** ”

Changing back to Westron for the benefit of his guards, Gandalf said, “Please bring me the sword hanging from that peg over there” pointing to his left. Nag Kath did so and stood with it in front of the desk. The wizard drawled kindly, “Good lad. Now draw it out a little.”

The Elf did not understand until Gandalf mimed the motion and Nag Kath exposed a foot of steel. It glowed a faint blue.

“Thank you, Nag Kath. Please hand it to Mr. Tolander.”

Nag Kath turned back as Tolander stepped forward to accept it. While that happened, Gandalf grabbed his staff leaning against the wall and cast a spell that surrounded the Elf with a pale green aura clinching every muscle in the changeling's body. He tried to scream but no sound would come. The wizard walked around the desk uttering an incantation to increase the power of the field. Nag Kath dropped to his knees, frozen in pain. 

A thin black and green mist began oozing from the Elf that circled him like a cloud of gnats and then dissipated out the window. After that, the spell was the only thing holding him up. Gandalf ended it with a grunt and the Elf fell on his nose followed by a small trickle of blood spreading across the floor.

The old wizard knelt beside the stricken form and felt his neck. Looking up at the guards he said, “He’s going to sleep for a while. Take him to Worm Tongue’s old room and let me know when he wakes.”

Both men hesitated for the slightest moment. Neither had seen the wizard do more magic than lighting candles with his fingers. Glad they hadn’t unmanned themselves in presence of true sorcery, they dragged the unconscious Elf by the armpits out of the study. Either he was much lighter than he looked or wanting to leave that fell room lent them strength. One flight up, they dropped him face-down on the bed, locked the door and hung the key on a nail just outside.

_______________-------______________

Gandalf shook his head as the soldiers hauled the creature down the hall. He tried to keep reading but could not concentrate on the tedious report. The orc was more important. Why would the King send the monster here? There were a dozen possible reasons. Aragorn said himself that the Lady Arwen suspected this fellow of being Sauron, escaped yet again in Elvish form to buy time. Aragorn must have doubts or he would have settled this in Gondor. He was a dear man to spare the beast.

He might be hard for mortals to kill. If three soldiers never saw him coming, who would volunteer for that task? No, arrows would stop him. He wasn’t very powerful if a simple purge spell could paralyze him like a fish. And why risk him escaping in Rohan, of all places? The wizard’s best guess was that Nag Kath was sent because he knew something or was something that could help Gandalf’s inquiries. The King would have already extracted information but dared not send it here with the orc. 

This called for a smoke. He scraped the burned weed out of his smaller clay pipe and loaded a small pinch of fresh leaf – just enough to order his thoughts. Practically; did this help or just add another task to the list? He had a few. 

Gandalf, Mithrandir to many in the region, returned to Orthanc because only he could clean the mess. His most important labor was to make sure the knowledge how to create the dread Uruk-hai died. Here was one of them now, thought he didn’t look it. They were spawned in great numbers rather than born like common orcs. However unlikely; the process could be repeated. That must not happen. Orthanc was part of Gondor now. The King bade him hold the keys as long as he needed to remove foul sorceries and craft. After hundreds of years under Saruman’s thumb, this rock had secrets men did not need to know. 

An intriguing part of that mystery was the seventh lock. The door keys to Orthanc were symbols of power. But there were seven interior keys to safes and storerooms. Those were less known because few men came here and fewer left. Five were immediately matched. One was disguised in a pedestal. But the seventh lock had not been found even though his folk had scoured the place. He should employ Hobbits of the Shire! They could find anything.

Another of Gandalf’s tasks was organizing the files. Orthanc served as the archive of the wizards in Middle-Earth because Saruman was their chief and head of the White Council. An entire library had been built over the years with Elvish, Dwarvish and Mannish texts. Several bookshelves were given over to Numenorean papers that survived the flood. This cache rivaled the library of Gondor and was in generally better condition. In addition to anything he could find about the Uruks, Gandalf hoped to learn the fate of the Blue Wizards who came to Middle Earth about when he did and disappeared shortly afterwards. Now; what were their names?

Most of the documents were routine reports and quartermasters’ lists like the one making his head hurt right now. He had packed two small crates that should go to the undying lands with Elves leaving these shores. Gondor would keep the rest or send them home. 

The third matter was repatriating Saruman’s estate. The first White Wizard had light fingers. By force, threat or deceit, he accumulated a room-full of valuable and culturally significant artifacts over the centuries. Folk wanted them back. 

A gathering of free peoples was called for here in Orthanc next spring. Gandalf would rather avoid diplomats bickering over trinkets but there were larger issues. Some of these men, he supposed they were men, had little to do with one another except fighting regional dark factions. Some were merely crushed. A few might have been on the wrong side. It was time to unite them. Lord Aragorn was seeing to the invitations.

In addition to the identifiable patrimony, Saruman had a chest of gold Florins larger than two men could lift. Gold has no father. Claims on that and precious stones would be based on need and loss. For the meantime, that gave the wizard all the cash he needed for this and a dozen operations like this in perpetuity. His was not a sprawling enterprise but he needed people for security, organization, carrying things up or down and feeding everyone.

At the top of the chain were fourteen former soldiers, half from Rohan and half from Gondor. These men impressed Gandalf in the Ring Wars and had uncertain futures back home. Some brought their families here. All knew this was a limited engagement but it was still also a fresh start at good pay. Soldier’s wives had senior positions in the household staff.

Below them were the cooks, cleaners, repairmen and husbanders. A few were former slaves of Saruman with nowhere to go. Turnover was still high. Paid employment was a huge improvement but many of them could not manage the strain after such harsh treatment. Others were refugees from Dunland caught in regional strife. Fighting for dark Lords was only one of several reasons those people killed each other. Included in this category were traders bringing supplies to this isolated outpost. Most brought Saruman’s goods too. Gandalf paid them from the same box.

Last came the miners. 

There was nothing so cheap in Middle Earth as the swords of dead orcs. They were underfoot here, the Pelennor and the forests of Helm's Deep. Saruman had created the largest iron works in the world to equip his troops. They were wasteful. He had limitless labor and ore and trees for the fire but precious little time. The metal his orcs and slaves produced was poor by men’s standards. To the good; they had already done the backbreaking work of mining and crushing the stone, then smelting out most impurities. Salvagers reclaiming slag slopped out of a single crucible might equal a week of digging it out of the mountain.

These clannish people were also refugees. For years uncounted they mined the Pit of Iron, crags immediately below Isengard at the base of the Misty Mountains where the purest ore was found. As Saruman’s need for steel increased, his Uruk-hai killed, enslaved or forced men further away from their traditional homes. Threat ended; they laid claim and were making up for lost time. 

Miners were Dunlanders in the broad sense but really a people unto themselves. They had no political sympathies. They held conservative views for family and feared a pantheon of local gods and demons anxious to judge. Salvagers, called scratchers by the soldiers, reclaimed timbers and stone from the slave quarters for housing as the Ents beautified Orthanc. It was unsightly but temporary. Originally outside of the compound walls, the huts and barracks were largely out of view from the lower levels of the tower. 

Gandalf reluctantly agreed to let them scrounge iron from the pits but had two steadfast conditions. One was that they were to give anything they found with writing to the guards immediately. That had amounted to little. The orcs only use for paper needn’t be mentioned here. The other was that they had to do the noisy and smelly work of processing their bounty well away from Gandalf’s studies.

Most agreed. One night, a flight of flaming Nazgûl screamed down from the heavens over their shanty-town convincing the rest to mend their ways. Gandalf still chuckled over that.

Fifteen or so of their womenfolk did day work here in the tower. 

Deciding he’d had enough of ancient boot requisitions, Gandalf needed to speak with a bird.

_______________-------______________

As horrified as the guards were, Nag Kath had simply gone through a variation of the cycle he endured a hundred times in the dungeon. This hurt worse but only lasted a minute. He woke in the morning, three days later. At first, he lay motionless making sure there were no dangers in the room. Alone, he rose slowly and started the familiar process of stretching and un-kinking painful joints and limbs. 

Fortunately, someone thought to provide a chamber pot and a pitcher of water. He used them in that order. Shuffling to the door, Nag Kath leaned his forehead against it and started pounding with the heel of his palm until the peep-door opened. Outside was a guard he hadn’t seen before in the livery of Gondor cavalry. The man casually assessed the prisoner and shut the flap.

After half a bell, the soldier opened the door and told him to follow. He was with another new guard, this one clad as trooper of Rohan. They did not seem particularly worried about him. No weapons were drawn. The three descended a single flight of stairs to the wizard’s study. This time the door was open. The guards gestured for him to enter but remained outside and shut the door behind him.

Gandalf was sitting at his table. Still groggy from his ordeal, Nag Kath did not immediately notice another old man sitting at the far end. The elder was dressed from head to toe in a patchwork of brown rags. For a moment he reminded the Elf of beggars in Minas Tirith who wore similar garments hoping pity would inspire a few coppers from passersby.

No, this fellow’s face showed purpose and confidence. And he smelled better. Nag Kath approached the table at the regulation distance and waited. The wizard, or someone, had reduced the stacks of papers to a few orderly piles. In the black speech Gandalf told Nag Kath to take the chair across from him. The changeling did but then said in Westron, “Your pardon, my Lord. My old talk is strange to my ears. Can use this talk instead?”

“Of course, dear boy. I think that wise of you.” Gandalf wanted facts and would use any tongue to get them. “Nag Kath, my friend does not speak your old language so that may be best for all.” His friend only nodded. Gandalf adjusted in his seat and said, “I am sorry for the pain I caused you the other day. I needed to remove the last of the orc from your blood.”

Nag Kath gave them both their first look at his infamous grin saying, “I do that many times. Good you did not tell first.”

The Elf would have gradually purged that himself over the next year but Gandalf had no reason to wait. The spell was similar to the one he used on King Theoden to remove the presence of Saruman. 

“Now, young man, I want you to tell us everything about yourself.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Not Lord. Just Gandalf.”

“Yes Gandalf.” For an hour Nag Kath gave a much fuller version of the story he had told officials in Minas Tirith. His improving knowledge of the common speech and the ability to lapse into orcish moved the narrative along. Gandalf asked most of the questions but the elder in brown chimed in occasionally, mostly to clarify.

The subject turned to his confrontation with the soldiers. His description and later analysis of events made more sense to the old men than they had in the south. Nag Kath used the same pantomime of running from his chair to a candle stand across the large room for scale. The still unnamed friend finally asked a question of his own. “Has this happened before or since?”

The Elf answered with orcish brevity, “Both,” not understanding they might want to learn more.

The man in brown continued gently, “Let us start with before.”

Nag Kath explained hitting the guardi with his own stick leaving the dungeon. The warg story was much more interesting. Aragorn would not have heard that. And slaying a warg might have softened his reception in Edoras as well. There was no love lost among Saruman’s forces. Giving his purse to Dornlas was noteworthy. To their minds, it reduced the chance that he was secretly Sauron. The Dark Lord was notoriously stingy.

Gandalf announced that they had covered enough ground for the day. “Nag Kath, ask the two men outside to come in.” On his way to the door he saw the contents of his pack had been strewn in what at this hour was a darker corner of the room. The soldiers presented themselves at the desk and Gandalf asked them to help the Elf pick-up his belongings. They did, but the Gondoran looked back to the wizard when they found the sword. The wizard nodded so the man strapped it to the pack. Nag Kath’s leather art tube leaned unnoticed against the wall.

When everything was stuffed back in the bag, Gandalf said, “Thank you Nag Kath. We will talk again soon. Lemas, please take our guest downstairs for some food and find him a bunk. Nag Kath will be staying with us for a while.”

The Elf returned to the desk to say thank-you when his pale face lost what little color it had. 

“A’mash?!”

_______________-------______________

Lemas was working on precious little information. Legatorn would have never said a word but Tolander wasted no time sharing how the creature known as Nagass had been beset with powerful witchcraft nearly to his death. Now Lemas was to find him a billet as if he was just one of the lads.

The Elf tried to dash past him to find A’mash. When the soldier could make sense of what the worried teenager wanted he said, “Relax friend. Your mule has been eating better than you have. Let’s get you some food.”

That would mean going cap-in-hand to Rosas, the formidable tower cook. She and her staff had stiff rules as to when rations could be had. Lemas walked past her cooks and cleaners with the outlandish Elf to Rosas’ little office. She was planning the evening meal. “Hello Rosas. I need some leftovers.”

Without looking up the stout, middle-aged woman grumbled, “Hello Lemas. This isn’t a pub.”

Lemas played his only card, “This is a new guest of Gandalf. He thought you might have something.”

She raised her head at that. The only guest checking in here lately was the creature who had just been tortured and imprisoned. This fair-faced boy fit the description. “All right, put your pack down. I got some porridge, salt pork, biscuits, and bread in the basket. There’s also half a capon under the napkin over there.”

Meals were served an hour after sunrise and an hour before sundown with no lunch. The exception was for Gandalf who seldom ate it. The capon was his. Nag Kath had to learn a capon was a chicken before declining. He was happy with bread and cheese. Lemas did not let the capon go to waste.

After eating, their next chore was to find quarters. Only one person could manage that. They made their way up a flight of stairs and down two halls until they saw a tall, raw-boned woman with thick ginger braids directing two maids. Lemas walked over to her and cooed, “Is now the time you finally leave your worthless husband and fall in my arms?”

She belly-laughed, not one of your society-titters, mind you, and replied, “Oh Lemas, I would, but you’re poor and need to lose twenty pounds.”

They both laughed. Lemas was one of her and her husband’s oldest friends. Annas managed the organization of the tower. Her husband was Sergeant Eomander, head of the guards. Their son Coran was the lad who told Gandalf of the Elf and there was a daughter who was probably practicing her needlework about now.

Annas could barely read but she had an amazing ability to put things in the right place. She was obeyed easily, a natural leader. 

“Annas, this is Nagass or Cat or …” 

He looked to the Elf who corrected in his halting cadence, “I am Nag Kath.”

Lemas said, “Close enough. Gandalf says he will be staying with us for a while and I’m to find him a room.”

She tilted her head, “Did he say where?” That was for logistics and if this was the beast of Tolander’s tale, how should he be placed relative to everyone else?

“Nope.”

She turned and said, “Follow me.” They walked through a long corridor with three identical doors. She opened the first one and asked of no one in particular, “How is this?”

If she was asking Nag Kath, it was fine. The room was fairly spacious with a bed almost long enough for his feet and a real window facing east. There was a dresser, a small desk, several candles and a night-soil box. Annas told him he would have to get his own water from the tub near the kitchen. With that, she returned to her duties. Lemas looked at Nag Kath and said, “You’ll find your mule in the stables behind the tower.”

Nag Kath skipped down the main steps and loped around the tower. He could have gone out the back door but didn’t know there was one. Sitting on the top rail of a paddock was another boy about the same age as the ones out front watching a dozen horses and one mule. Nag Kath proclaimed, “That is my mule.”

The lad said nothing. His job was to make sure none of the critters escaped. People could talk to them all they wanted. The Elf whistled and A’mash trotted over to the fence for ear scratches. When the mule found there were no oats involved, he got bored and returned to a thick patch of grass. One of the horses investigated too and came right up to him.

Duty done, Nag Kath strolled around the grounds. How could this place have changed so much in two years? Perhaps for the worse, but not for the better. He walked to one of the pit entrances and saw a stout horse that hadn’t been there before pulling a long bar attached to a winch. Yet another lad of about twelve (it must have been a cold winter) was on his back making sure he didn’t slow down. A large pawl clicked the time. They were bringing something up to the surface. He stayed far enough back not to scare the horse and then remembered the steed in the paddock. Perhaps losing the remaining orc made him acceptable to these fickle creatures. He would test that theory carefully.

There was a lot to draw here. At that point he realized his pencils, paints and paper were not with his pack. Gandalf said he would be staying here for a while. There would be time to reclaim them.

At the appointed dinner time, people from around the compound began gathering in a large mess hall just off the kitchen. The room had been something else in days of grandeur but now it served well for those working here. Employees seemed to come from nowhere. Nag Kath wasn’t hungry but he wanted to see how things worked. 

A line formed-up along a series of tables. Kitchen helpers ladled different foods from large tubs onto the diner’s plates. The Elf took some vegetables that had not been cooked into a stew. A group of women stood near the tubs. They were miner’s wives who cooked and cleaned in the tower. Hot dinner for their families was a large part of their compensation and they filled baskets under the watchful eye of Rosas’ second-in-command, a woman almost the size of Lemas whose face was not built for smiling.

If there was a seating protocol, Nag Kath did not know it. The only pattern he could detect was that no one would sit next to him. The miner’s wives stared at him like he was a chained troll. They did not take their meal here in the evening but they did in the morning. He would see how that went. Finally, Annas walked by and asked if he was settling in. Annas feared nothing, least of all boys, and to all-the-world, Nag Kath looked like a teenager, a tall one, but still a youth.

While the diners were served, Rosas’ humorless lieutenant set aside portions for those still working. Someone was always on duty and often projects did not cooperate with scheduled meals. Since nobody wanted to talk to him, he finished his carrots and went back to his room. 

Breakfast conversation was no different than dinner except Annas was not there. The miner’s wives still considered him possessed and would not look at him if he was looking at them. 

He spent some of the day talking to A’mash. His bag of oats was stowed in a slap-dash storage shed. Helping himself to a bucket, he made friends along the paddock fence. One of the horses was a beautiful white stallion, the only one that would get near his mule. Of course, horses are terrible snobs. A’mash’s mother was a horse so he tolerated their disdain, but he wasn’t above biting one that was too snotty.

Nag Kath had thinking to do. Until recently, he hadn’t considered what he wanted – or what he could do. What Uruk-hai wanted was a bigger piece of saw-bread and to die quickly when it came. They lived in the moment. Longer-term objectives were pointless. Since his transformation, his agenda hadn’t been his own either. It was only pure luck that his first strong emotional reaction was to beauty and wonder rather than fear or hate. It was a near thing and could have gone quite differently.

While picking carrots out of greasy stew that night he had the budding realization that he didn’t have to do that. The long term was still a blur but there were things he wanted now; goals, had he known the concept. One was to get his art supplies back. Two was to get more exercise. After a month of hard travel, five days of inactivity made him feel sluggish in mind and body. Deep breaths made for deep thoughts. 

His third goal was to discover why he was here. Now that the dark forces were out of his system, was he done? What did Gandalf want? Come to that; what was Gandalf? And, for the first time; what should he do next? He pondered well into the night. Nag Kath wasn’t used to thoughts keeping him awake so he tried relaxing his mind like he had in the dungeon to dampen the pain. Within minutes he was sound asleep.

He woke at dawn and put on his city shoes for a run. They were barely together after repeated Kath baths but better for running than his boots. He jogged down the stairs, out the tower and built to a moderate pace circling the inside path where the wall had been. He hopped broken stones and flood debris but the path was fairly smooth. When he reached the part of the wall with the shanty-town, there was a gaggle of women and children all wondering what insanity could cause someone to strain more than their labors required. He waved and kept going.

Not all of the wall had been removed. Another quarter of the way around the circle brought him to the Ent breach nearest the Isen. He picked his way through the rubble and continued loping along the bank. This was more cross-country but he wasn’t pushing hard the way he had to run as a messenger. Half a mile further along, an eddy pool was carved in the rocks away from the main river current. He sat down and poured the sand out of his shoes. Then he disrobed and waded-out far enough for a clean dive. 

For reasons that died with their creator, Uruk-hai could swim. It was not an elegant stroke, you understand, but like dogs, they could keep their heads above water. Twice in his training, the Depotchuul (drill sergeant) marched a hundred of them above the makeshift dam on the Isen to the far side of the lake it created and made them swim eighty feet of water in full armor. One sank like an orc but the rest made it sputtering to the far side and back.

Perhaps Saruman thought they needed amphibious assault skills for later campaigns. Helm’s Deep was the first thrust in force outside of Isengard. It was meant to kill the king and command staff but, holed-up in the Deep, the assault could never have trapped many soldiers or civilians here on the border – Saruman’s greatest miscalculation.

Nag Kath surfaced ten paces from the plunge. He shook his head and tread in a circle for a view of the rising forest. This new body floated better than the last. He spent the next half hour swimming from side to side or holding his breath and diving. As with his dips in the snow melt through Rohan, the frigid water did not turn him blue.

Mission complete, he found a small, sandy beach to dry and dress. There were a lot of interesting angles to draw. The star appearing after dusk was even brighter up here. He had not progressed very far in his painting studies, though. The incident with the three soldiers saw to that. Hopefully he could scrounge some paper and pens or pencils in the tower if Gandalf had impounded his tube. He had to do something to bide the time besides talking to A’mash. 

Nag Kath walked up to his room to change into his boots and then continued up to Gandalf’s study in hopes of collecting his supplies. The door was shut and Eomander stood outside. He had heard of the man but this was the first time he had seen Annas’ husband and leader of Gandalf’s small force. Eomander was a big, bald fellow and had been a sergeant of like stature to Matelars in the Entwash militia, one of the larger companies in the country. He rode in King Theoden’s army as a younger man but after a fight that seemed to settle things for a while, he joined his older brother’s horse farm with a small equity stake. That went well. He married the incomparable Annas, had children and counted his blessings until his brother died unexpectedly a year before the Ring War call-up.

His brother’s eldest was an intemperate man with a roving eye. Worse; he was the sort who thought he could outsmart more experienced hands. Eomander had been on the verge of demanding his share and leaving several times before the muster at Dunharrow. He caught Gandalf’s attention in the Gondor campaigns and when the war was over, the wizard’s offer to supervise Isengard security seemed a lot better than prospects back home. He actually did get a small settlement from his nephew including the horses Annas and their children rode here.

“Good day. I am Nag Kath.”

“I know who you are. What do you want?” No mincer of words; Eomander.

“To see Gandalf.”

“He’s out.”

“I want to get my pack.”

“Gandalf has to approve that and he’s out.”

“When does he come?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Who are you?”

“Sergeant Eomander.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Eomander.” Sergeant; no bow needed. 

He turned and walked back down the stairs. Three rotations below, the changeling caught a whiff of something familiar and foul. He stopped and sniffed the air but it was gone. The same boy from the miner’s camp was watching the paddock. Nag Kath said he was taking the mule out for a walk. Again; he got no response. The lad was there to make sure they didn’t get out on their own. If someone took one, that was their business.

A’mash followed him for a walk around the inside of the wall. At the salvagers’ town he saw the same group of gawkers, almost all women with some children peering around their mothers' full skirts. Girls nearing womanhood were kept indoors. Their menfolk would be deep below by now. The ladies seemed glum. Mining must be very hard. Caring for miners must be hard. The orcs that worked the pits in his day didn’t last long. If accidents and fights didn’t kill them, the sulfurous air would.

Nag Kath took the mule back to the original grassy area near the main stairs and they both took a drink from the brook. The water tasted sweet. Clear water tasted better than brown, good to know when you had a choice. They loafed for an hour and then he took the mule back to the paddock.

_______________-------______________

It was time to see if he could cobble some drawing supplies together. Annas would know where things were, if Lemas was anyone to go by. She was also the only one who would talk to him. He found her in a small room near the kitchen counting cloth bolts for the seamstresses. The woman could read a little but not write. Common folk here and in Gondor could usually count though and used a system of marks for each item – nine in a row with a tenth drawn through to complete the group – the same number as fingers. It would be no help to the Scholars in their celestial calculations but their calculations were no help to anyone else. All Nag Kath noticed was that she used a chalk on a thin black slate.

“Good day, Annas.”

“Oh, hello Nag Kath. What brings you by?”

“Hope you can help find paper, pencils. Gandalf kept mine.”

“Hmmm … Gandalf keeps all the writing paper in his study.” She gave it some thought; “Ask Rosas. Sometimes her supplies come wrapped in paper or parchment. Tell her I said to ask. I don’t know where to find pencils.”

With a bow, “Thank you, Annas.”

Annas smiled and went back to her cloth.

As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, one of the women barked, “No food until supper” in a heavy Dunnish accent. 

“Do not need food. Need Rosas. She is here?”

The woman looked at him crossly but then went back to Rosas’ little office. A minute later, the stout cook walked out. “I told you, no food between meals!”

“Ohhhh … Annas say you have paper.”

“Did she now?” It was good he dropped her name. Rosas did a quick inventory. “I just may. Come with me.” The salvager’s wife never changed her sour expression as the Elf followed the cook to a large storage area near the eastern entrance.

The room was a confusion of boxes, crates and non-perishable foods. This wasn’t just the kitchen storage; it was the port-of-entry for all of the supplies that came to Orthanc. Like his guest room in Minas Tirith, groceries and grocers weren’t admitted through the front door. Rosas went back to a dark corner of the room and stood by a small crate with large, bold printing. Neither of them knew what it meant but someone was trying to make a point. The crate was better than half full with layers of what looked like heavy tan paper. Peeling a piece back revealed small cloth pouches with different colored swatches. Several were missing on this layer. Nag Kath wondered if they were paints. 

“I don’t know what thems are, but there’s no fire allowed near them.” There were no torches in the wall brackets either. Had she known, she might have noticed that the missing colors on this layer were the same as the flaming Nazguls streaking towards noisy miners.

“You can’t have the ones in the box. Those are all right.” pointing to sheets that had separated several missing layers. The elf collected six measuring about two by three feet each, a veritable trove.

“Thank you, Rosas. Do you know pencils?”

“You’d need someone who can write for that,” she chuckled. “Can’t help you.” The Elf bowed and left grinning with his cache. Rosas watched him walk. Mighty silly for an enchanted Elf. Men didn’t look like him in northern Rohan. A younger woman might learn to like that. She followed Nag Kath out and turned, “No, Agneth. Put that under the pans!”

_______________-------______________

If pencils were a privilege, he could make do with charcoal. The furnaces would be full of pieces if the flood hadn’t washed them too deep. He wandered over to the miner’s tool shed near one of the openings into the ground. Not far away, a new lad, this one a bit older, was sitting on the same horse turning the wheel. Someone thought well of this handsome animal because the gearing was not onerous. He kept a steady pace without strain and didn’t look too thin. No doubt his owners had already given A’mash a good look.

Staring into the forge pit was like staring into his grave. Anyone watching might have thought Nag Kath was afraid of heights. If they knew what he knew, they would be afraid of what had happened below. The Elf called to a man fifty feet down on the main catwalk. “Hello. I am Nag Kath. Do you have charcoal?”

Without a word, the scratcher motioned to a younger fellow who walked into view and cupped his ear.

“Do you have charcoal”

“It’s all over. Help yourself.”

The Elf hadn’t been through this portal but he climbed down with sure feet. Both men waited for him and the younger pointed down one of the rope bridges. Many of these had been destroyed by falling wreckage when the Ents broke the dam, but most survived and were even more dangerous than when the orcs strung them. Pieces of the penstock that drove the huge trip hammer were still hanging from the supports. The heavy metal parts had already been hauled up and carted to where the salvagers were allowed to make noise. “Get lost and you’re on your own!” They were waiting for the load being hauled from below and had leisure to watch Nag Kath walk down rather more quickly than one would expect from a greenbottom. 

Nearing the end of light for mannish eyes, a hideous face painted over the pod pit entrance stared down at him. He took a moment to study it before turning on a more industrial path to the sword forge. In near black he found a pile of coals untouched by the water. Most crushed in his hand but more than he expected were solid. Almost all of the steel produced in this hell was left soft to pound into implements and armor. Only the weapons forge needed to reheat steel orange hot for hardening. The orcs weren’t over-worried about producing a fine edge because these weapons were primarily used as clubs, but swords that broke on impact were grounds for punishment – something to be avoided in a pit of hot irons.

Nag Kath laid his blouse flat and heaped several handfuls of coals into the center. Tying the sleeves and tails together, he walked back up the bridge timing the lurching swings nimbly. With a polite bow to the men waiting for the mine shaft bucket, he strolled out to the surface and inspected his haul.


	15. Goals and Powers

**_Chapter 15_ **

**_Goals and Powers_ **

For the next few days Nag Kath started a pattern of exercise and sketching. On the third day he took his morning run and swim. There seemed to be more miners’ wives watching. He waved. They stared. After he dried and dressed, he started walking up the path when his Elf ears noticed the slightest of sounds behind him. 

The Elf loudly whistled a song he learned with the wounded train. As he climbed, he reduced the volume until he stopped and then slipped behind a large tree on the path. A young woman, about fifteen he thought, stole almost silently back to the camp. 

He had an admirer. She was of the age where the conservative hillmen kept daughters inside. Nag Kath arrived at the tower in time for breakfast and then walked the grounds with his sketch pad. Today he hiked up to where the dam had stood. The lake was gone. 

Gandalf had still not sent for him. Gandalf didn’t even seem to be there. The white horse was missing too. Nag Kath was drawing one of the local hills when his charcoal crumbled and smudged the piece. With an orcish word not meant for polite company, he walked back up to Gandalf’s study. Lemas was outside and the door was closed.

“Hello Lemas. Can I get my pencils?”

“Not until Gandalf says.”

“Thank you, Lemas.” 

At dinner people had started sitting near him, if not talking to him. This time it was Eomander. And he was not here to chat. The burly man said softly, “Nag, we’re getting complaints from the scratchers. They say you bathing so close to them is indecent and bothers their women.”

Nag Kath looked at him and countered, “Not so close.”

“Look, I’m not your Sergeant or your father. I’m just telling you to watch your step.”

The Elf nodded as the soldier left the room.

The next day, Nag Kath took his advice and ran well away from the shantytown without swimming. The damage was done. Four miners hurried towards his path. They should be deep underground by now so this was planned.

“Hey you! We warned yas to keep from our women.” The threat was issued by a small, wiry man with lank black hair and close-set eyes. For reasons no one who knew either of them could fathom, he married a lovely woman who bore him two fine children without losing her face or figure. She was one of the watchers when he ran along the trail. 

The man sneered, “Aleg, what do we do to thems what don’t listen?”

A thick miner with a red beard and no other hair replied, “We teaches them a lesson.” The two other men stood by, probably there more for loyalty than justice. 

The wiry man pulled a blade. It was a thin dirk about eighteen inches long. Like most civilian weapons, it had no guard. These were light, offensive tools not made for combat. He waved the dirk in the air like an aristocrat testing a practice sword. 

Then he began waving it in the Elf’s direction. Nag Kath did not need his extraordinary speed to avoid the half-hearted swipes. Elvish reactions were enough. Passes got close but were still no threat. The man’s companions began to snicker that the blonde wasn't scared or pleading. The pretty-boy was making him a fool! The miner's face hardened and the idle swipes became a hard jab towards Nag Kath’s heart.

And then, as has been described before, time stopped. One moment, the point was a foot from the Elf’s chest. An instant later, it was buried through the scratcher’s left boot all the way to the grip.

Shock preceded pain by a blink. “AAAHHH!” The man tried to move his foot which only widened the cut. He was pinned to the earth. “NGAAGHHH!” He tried to pull the weapon out but it was firmly lodged. Falling over backwards made it worse. “I’ll kill you dougsht!” he screamed as blood left his face and puddled under his boot.

A moment later, Aleg found his considerable bulk dangling above the ground with the Elf’s hand crushing his throat. This was not a boy. This was the face of an Elvish warrior just like in the legends. Aleg was losing consciousness as his water dribbled down his leg. Nag Kath brought him nose-to-nose with an orcish growl. The miner later remembered the creature’s eyes changed color. The changeling snarled, **_“Remember!”_** in the Black Speech, then flung him aside like a toy. 

The wiry man passed out as his two friends tried in vain to extract the dirk. Nag Kath surveyed the wreckage and strode back towards the tower. Legatorn and one of the Rohirrim were watching from a balcony on the second level. 

Good! Let them remember too.

_______________-------______________

The knife through the foot was an instant decision but part of a plan. He could have killed him. He could have killed them all. But that was not his new way, not how he wanted to find his place. It had to matter or things must end badly. The miner would be back at work in a month.

Nag Kath chose this demonstration when it presented itself for two reasons: One was to better understand this gift, if that is what it was. He was only alive because the most powerful people on earth had not quite killed him. That could change. The second reason was that it was time to learn what Gandalf wanted. The wizard removed the remaining orc from his flesh but had shown no further interest. If this display did not get his attention, it was time to move on – probably to the north where Dornlas said there used to be people like him.

Breakfast the next morning was eaten in silence. Not only did no one talk to him, they didn’t talk to each other while he was there. The salvager-women couldn’t even bring themselves to look at him – suspicions confirmed that he was a demon from one of their many mountain hells. A notable exception was Fionel, the miner’s sister-in-law. Her lips pursed into a grim smile nodding her approval. Had she the power, that knife would have cut higher.

Nag Kath kept to the tower and surrounds. He did not run or swim but he did lead the mule to the grassy area and lay on his back looking at the clouds. Events had been put in motion that would break the impasse. He heard nothing from upstairs. Dinner went the same as breakfast except Annas was there and she always smiled. Nothing scared Annas.

The morning meal started with Eomander leaning over Nag Kath’s shoulder saying, “Upstairs.”

Gandalf chose his security men for their experience. He wanted cool heads and tamed passions. That was not a recommendation for hundreds of stair steps. Eomander had a trick knee and used a brace made of two hinged steel slats on either side of his leg bound to his thigh and calf with leather straps. They lent support but did nothing for speed. The pivot was due for fresh tallow too. As with Tolander, Nag Kath alternated steps on the narrow treads to not leave him behind. He smelled nothing passing the seventh landing.

They eventually arrived with Eomander short of breath. The door to Gandalf’s study was open. Nag Kath walked in and the Rohirrim closed the door from the outside. The Elf walked over to the table and saw the brown elder had returned as well. Perhaps the day’s wait was in bringing him to hear evidence.

“Sit!”

Nag Kath did as told. Gandalf rose and took his sword off the peg. This was the legendary weapon Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. Nag Kath had prepared for this. If this was to be his end, he was glad to have seen some beauty in his short life. The wizard unsheathed the blade and casually laid it across Nag Kath’s arm. Twisting it slightly for the best reflection, it showed no hint of blue. The wizard slipped the weapon back in the scabbard and returned it to the peg. Finding his seat, he scraped burned weed from his pipe into a saucer and refilled it from a small leather pouch. Finally, he took the last match from a small clay jar on the desk and scraped it on the underside of the table to light-up.

The elder in brown caught the aroma and noted, “Not Longbottom?”

Gandalf replied testily, “I am making inquiries!” In the exchange, Nag Kath stole a glance at his leather art tube. The white wizard turned to his guest, “Do you know what you are?”

“No. Just what others tell me. Men say Elf. Elves say no.” His Westron was improving.

“Do you know who we are?”

“Not old men.”

Gandalf leaned in sternly, “They said you growled … your face was fell and wolfish.”

“Make them scared! No one is afraid of this face.”

“It happened again, but not the same this time?” The Elf was learning that statements could actually be questions.

The changeling tilted his head and held his chin, not an orcish pose, and thought aloud, “Different. I had more …” he didn’t know the word ‘control’ yet so he finished with, “… command. More time to hold and decide. Only can do when they make me anger!”

“Is that why the miner is still alive?”

“Yes. I am not bad. Just want them not to fight.”

The white wizard chuckled. “I would have told them if they didn’t want their women watching you bathe they should try it themselves more often.” That was followed by a small cough from the local pipeweed.

Nag Kath shared the joke but thought it applied equally to some of the tower staff.

“We’ll leave that be for now. I am going to trust you. And I hate trusting you. We have just won the most terrible war. You should have died when all like you died. There can never be more Uruk.” He gazed to his right, “This is Radagast. We are the last stewards of this world against the evil of Sauron. Do you know who Sauron was?”

“Yes. Dark lord.”

“Correct. Our task is not complete until we know more about you.”

Gandalf took another draw of his pipe but it had gone out. Bloody Eriador pipeweed! He instinctively reached for the little match jar but it was empty. “Nag Kath, do an old man a favor and fetch more matches from that bookcase ... Should be about this high,” raising his hand to head height.

The Elf walked to the large wooden bookshelf. This was Annas’ doing. She had a handy soldier fit the top shelves with dividers to make cubbyholes. Gandalf tended to work furiously on a project until he solved it, abandoned it or waited for more information. Left to his own devices, he could never find anything he had worked on before. Most of these contained Gandalf’s puzzles waiting for more pieces. 

At eye-level in the first cubby was a box of pens and what looked like paints. Good to know; that. As he slowly inspected the compartments, the cubby fourth from the end started to glow. Another step and it was a soft white light. If a blue sword was bad, this must be worse. He looked to the wizards helplessly as they looked back in shock. Gandalf recovered first, “Good. Probably find them just before the lamp.”

Reassured, Nag Kath grabbed a fresh bottle of matches two bins before the curious light. The wizards watched in horror as the glow faded behind him.

_______________-------______________

Oh dear! Oh dear, indeed! Even in a world of circumstance and probability, this was impossible. But since it happened, it narrowed the wizards’ scope of inquiry considerably.

The glow came from a fragment of the wizard Saruman’s staff. Gandalf himself had destroyed it in Saruman’s hands on top of this very tower when Gandalf returned from death with heightened powers. Most of the staff had fallen into the surging Isen, but this piece of the crown casting clung to the roof.

A wizard’s staff is a very personal tool. It must be melded to the wizard’s powers and purpose over time. There is some interchangeability. Radagast gave Gandalf his staff after Gandalf’s was destroyed in Dol Guldor by the Necromancer (Sauron’s aspect at the time). There was a dangerous gap in effectiveness until he adapted it to his needs but it could be done. Saruman seized another of Gandalf’s staffs and used it to imprison him, again, in this very tower. But Saruman jealously guarded the secrets of his own staff. It responded only to his flesh and will. Gandalf and Radagast had both handled the twisted metal often and tested it with many known spells. Finding no residual power, it was consigned to Annas’ storage cubby.

And now; this Elf, this yrch, this grinning yokel! wanders by and it glows like an Elf-fountain firework! And the crystal is missing. The metal itself was shining it was so happy to see him! Somehow, this creature must have received magic from Saruman – possibly by blood or incantation. They might never know. The only bright spot was that it further reduced the possibility that he was Sauron escaped to yet another form. Nag Kath was a local boy.

The wizards really didn’t need to converse. They knew each other’s minds and could communicate with thought alone, not at great distances like the Elf-witch Galadriel, but easily in the same room. Gandalf started, “Nag Kath, did you ever meet Saruman?”

“Not meet, he come to inspect with drasjoul (head orc breeding master) and roshdal (armorer). Nineteen of us.”

“Did he do anything unusual or talk to you.”

“No, he walk line slowly … not happy! Said we were weak. Then talk to roshdal to fit. Then he go.

“Did he have his staff with him?”

Nag Kath had to think a moment, “Yes, yes he did. Saw later too when he cursed clouds to go to mountains. Very anger at clouds!” Hmmm … possibly the sorcery to create the avalanche that forced the fellowship into Moria.

Radagast this time; “Nineteen. That isn’t very many, is it?”

“Very small. Only nineteen of us. We were Templagz! Runners. The Fighters, Toluschg (Berserkers), sappers, many more. Made many times too. But Templagz; only once.”

Radagast was on the scent, “Why so few?”

Nag Kath broke into his farm-boy smile, “We wonder. Maybe fail. Not so good to make more. Not so bad feed to warags. We were “fast” Uruk-hai. Take messages to commanders. Must remember exact. Crows cannot say long talk.” He thought about that and chuckled.

Gandalf thought; oh, this was too much! Here we are trying to save Middle-earth and this horror is amused that he wasn’t fed to wild wolves! Radagast was undeterred, “How were you different, Nag Kath?”

The Elf sputtered an answer but there were no Westron words to suit. Inspiration struck. He said with gravity they had not seen before, “I will show.”

Nag Kath walked around the desk to his brown leather tube and untied one end as he returned in front of his chair. Reaching in, he pulled the entire roll of papers half out and then retrieved a small piece of fine parchment from the center. Spilling several pencils on the table, he chose the one that rolled his way and sat down to sketch. The wizards were impressed – first at the speed and then at the accuracy. In a minute the shape was roughed. Another minute later the detail was in with a final minute to fully shade the contrasts.

Radagast had never seen an Isengard Uruk. Gandalf had seen too many. The head was identical to the monsters at Helm’s Deep but the body was leaner and the armor lighter. Made to run … and expendable.

“This was Nag Duhl. I look like him.” His new face was an improvement. While Gandalf and Nag Kath discussed Uruk fashion, Radagast took the roll of papers out of the tube. 

On top was an extraordinary picture.

The Brown Wizard did not appreciate art. From time immemorial, it was used to convey meaning. Kings were grand. Men were never cross-eyed. Trees were always in leaf and it was always sunny. Every aspect of the work represented what it should say, not necessarily what was.

Here was a plump washerwoman, heavy with child, happily chatting with a woman whose back was to the artist while a third laundress admonished a four-year old gleefully walking on the ledge of a public fountain. The first woman had a wealth of freckles and a gap between her front teeth. Only her husband could love her. But she was loved, because this was the face of a loved woman. She existed exactly like this at that moment in time. It meant nothing but said everything.

The picture underneath melted his heart.

Radagast’s name meant “Tender of Beasts.” His older name was Aiwendil, “Bird-friend.” He was Maia to Yavanna, the Vala responsible for birds and animals – growing things in this world.

The picture was a pencil and ink drawing of a sparrow pecking a breadcrumb on a cobblestone street. She was perfect. She could have flown off the page. Nothing was added. Nothing removed. She wasn’t a great eagle or a symbol of strength – just a little bird daring cats and feet to feed her chicks for as long as her life would last.

Now the wizard knew there must be a reason the changeling was here.

Nag Kath saw him looking through the drawings and grunted. Radagast thought he might take this precious drawing but the Uruk thumbed through the sketches and found another picture of the same bird from a different angle. He swapped looks at the one in the wizard’s hands and the one in his before handing it to Radagast. “You keep.” 

Gandalf saw possibilities. While not articulate, the Elf could draw things and see things no one else could. He would put him to work! The first thing was that seventh lock. “Nag Kath, come with me.”

The wizard stood and walked to the opposite side of the room from the bookcase while rattling a key ring in the front pocket of his robe. Nag Kath was tempted to recommend Lentaraes’ practice of using oatmeal to conceal the noise. Gandalf used one of the keys to open a small but impregnable stone door with an ornate escutcheon built into the wall. It was the size of a pie safe.

“I want you to watch for a keyhole like this one” he said, pointing to the slot. “We can’t find it. The ones we have found have a red mark next to them. I also want you to watch for other secret hiding places. Your eyes may find what others have not.”

Nag Kath thought for a moment, “I know one.”

Gandalf erupted to his own considerable height and commanded, “Show me!”

_______________-------______________

Nag Kath grabbed his art supplies as the wizards, Elf and Eomander stamped, stepped, tapped and squeaked down the stairs. At the seventh he showed them where he had smelled the faint but foul odor of orc. Not every time. Not even this time. But it had been here. He got on his hands and knees, sniffing like a hound. Pointing at a panel along the wall of the staircase he said, “There.”

Gandalf coaxed a light from his own staff by moving his fingers close to the head. Nag Kath wondered at these wizards and their convenient lights. “Where?”

With the light, the changeling ran his fingers over the carved trim in the stone and felt a tiny crack. He sniffed again and there it was. “Inside.”

As he had at the gates of Moria, Gandalf rattled-off a stream of Elvish and Dwarvish spells to no avail. There were no markings or key holes. The panel looked just all the rest. They never learned the command. When patience failed, two stout soldiers with Dwarf hammers pounded the panel to shards.

A clever little closet had been fashioned inside an exterior buttress. For most of the stair this was simply the inside of the outside wall. The secret vault would look like a solid support from east of the tower. The granite was only an inch thick but had been hardened with the rest of the structure by craft forgotten. Ten minutes later, the panel was demolished revealing a dead orc who lay where he stood when the ring was unmade. The soldiers dragged the desiccated creature onto the landing. He did not weigh much. Gandalf went in immediately but there wasn’t room for two so Nag Kath sat next to Radagast on the stairs and watched. 

Gandalf’s charmed his staff to glow brighter. It revealed three things. Several bundles of papers got the wizard’s attention first. Stacked together they were three inches tall. Then there was an Elvish crown or hair band in the high, old style. Nag Kath had seen the Lady Arwen and the Elvish questioner wear them. It was displayed on a purpose-built wooden stand of superb craftsmanship. Finally, there was a small chest which, when opened, shined with silver tenth-Florins. 

Gandalf ordered everything taken to his study. His 'experienced' soldiers groaned a little out of earshot (men’s, not Nag Kath’s) as they hauled the booty up the stairs. Making a conscious effort to break from his new find, Gandalf turned to the Elf sitting on the stair and said kindly, “Good work, my lad. We will talk again soon.” He started climbing and added a parting thought, “I am proud of you, Nag Kath. You could have killed those miners thinking to impress us with your power and savagery. Instead, you showed great mercy. Mercy is a rare and precious gift. Guard it with your other gifts. I will send for you in a few days.”

As the wizards resumed the climb to Gandalf’s study, Nag Kath ran down the stairs two at a time to tell A’mash.

_______________-------______________

The Istari Maiar, servants of the mighty Valar, now in the form of human wizards, walked up to Gandalf’s study following the soldiers carrying the papers and Elf circlet. The cash he had them put with the gold. He did not think his men would help themselves but was not overly concerned. After all, he was not here to count lentils! As soon as the men left, he cut the twine around the newest-looking sheaf of papers and flipped through a few sheets. “There are plenty here for both of us.”

Not quite his area of expertise, Radagast declined, “I’ll leave the research to you, old friend. I return to the forest. It suffered as badly as the world of men from Sauron’s evil, and it will take longer to heal.”

Gandalf put the papers back in order and turned to face Radagast. “I am a poor host. Thank you for coming so quickly. I hope I am not grasping at straws.”

Radagast said thoughtfully, “Just being thorough. This old tower must have many secrets. Some will come to nothing.”

Gandalf said as he cleaned his pipe, “I am most concerned about those wretched Uruk-hai. We have yet to find anything in Saruman’s hand telling his method, and precious little of anything else from him.”

The brown wizard took a piece of cheese from the morning plate. Not quite finished chewing he mumbled, “For what good it does, you have your own Uruk-hai now.”

Gandalf wondered yet again. “Yes, though I am even less sure what to make of him after he lit that staff. It hardly seems possible but somehow, he must have received his witchcraft directly from Saruman. We were given that by the creator! It is not blood inherited. The others like him were all slain before Helm's Deep so he is the last. How do you suppose Saruman did it?”

Radagast had another nibble, “The real question is why.”

“I know. I know. I do not think we will ever learn. But, I have a theory.” Radagast nodded for Mithrandir to continue, “Sauron thought Saruman a puppet, but Saruman thought himself a rival. He sent this changeling’s own spawn to capture the One Ring and claim all fell servants in Middle-earth. It was certainly not to kneel before the Dark Lord!

“But Saruman had no higher servants, not like Sauron’s Nazgul. I think he was trying to make his own sorcerers.”

Radagast considered that, “Orcs with powers? I suppose it makes a perverse sense. So, we return to how. Blood or spell? If he could change the nature of flesh in creating those monsters, giving them magic might not be much harder. And remember, Saruman could move like that, more as a blur than here and there. Thranduil can too. We have seen this before.” 

Gandalf scoffed, “For all we know, Saruman used one of those foul pits as a chamber pot! If the changeling was truthful in his modesty, perhaps his was a failed pod, he called it pod, yes? Useful enough not to destroy but not worth developing. Perhaps our old colleague never got round to improving the recipe. If Nag Kath is his vessel, that silly grin is certainly his best disguise yet!” Gandalf reached for the lesser pipeweed pouch.

Radagast reflected, “I do not think Saruman would have shared any secrets about his staff, cold comfort, perhaps. As for Nag Kath, I wonder if this is as much as he has or it this talent is nascent. It is hard to reconcile that he is still just a child. He said himself he could, what was it … command it. But only when he is threatened. Could he summon it at will? For all we know, old friend, he is our young replacement to shepherd the race of men.”

The white wizard agreed, “We will inquire in the fullness of time. There is no rush. Winter will be on us soon. I’ll keep him here until the snow melts for evaluation. And I have use for him! Finding that panel has already earned his keep.” Eyeing the stack of documents, “Those Elf eyes might yet find more secrets the rest of us miss. I need some clever Hobbits! 

Gandalf added thoughtfully, “And I confess, old friend, I like this fellow. For someone who started life as a maggot, there may be some good, true good, in this business. I am at a loss how to tell him.”

Radagast remembered the little bird pictures in his robe. Gandalf could appreciate the skill but Radagast saw the soul. Unless the changeling was subsumed in a character he must completely discard, no dark lord would make something so insignificant so perfect. 

When Gandalf lifted the washerwomen drawing it revealed Nag Kath's pencil study for his painting of the Star of Eärendil over the pass to Rohan from the White City. Radagast spun it for the White Wizard to see, “What do you make of this?”

As he sometimes did with conundrums, Gandalf knitted his brows in concentration and muttered absently, “I wonder if it tells something. The changeling could not possibly understand even a tenth of the meaning; Arwen, Eärendil, the prophesy of Morgoth! Yet Morgoth was the author of this creature in the darkest days of the Elvish realms. Sauron was merely up-in-the-world after the Black Foe was consigned to the void. Nothing is coincidence. I wonder if Nag Kath is drawn to it as friend or enemy?”

“I think you must trust him a little more each day.” The brown wizard rose and reached for his staff. “You were right to invite me. I may be harder to reach in the coming months, but send word, nonetheless, if you need my counsel.”

They said simultaneously, “Until we meet again.” 


	16. The Wizard's Apprentice

**_Chapter 16_ **

**_The Wizard’s Apprentice_ **

Life around the tower got back to normal, such as normal was. Nag Kath was now considered the wizard’s apprentice. Everyone was put on notice to help him with his common tongue. People would start conversations. The miner’s wives still thought him a cave-troll, but occasionally made eye contact. When the secret panel was discovered, a number of tower inhabitants began searching exterior stair-walls for new troves. After two weeks of tapping and thumping, Gandalf had Eomander sternly thank everyone for their efforts.

The Elf resumed his run and swim routine but wore a pair of cutoff trousers for modesty sake. After a week, some of the miners’ inexhaustible supply of 12-year old boys came down to the pool to watch. He taught them to swim – fully clothed – respecting their cultural prohibitions against being uncovered. The boys got cold in a few minutes but had fun, which was in short supply at home. Girls were not supposed to leave their homes but he suspected there were watchers further up the trail. 

Nag Kath took his role as finder of secrets seriously. He did his tapping above Gandalf’s study. No one had ever lived in the top third of the tower. Ballistas, long forgotten, moldered in remembrance. It was a hard climb and every step was further from hot food. Minas Tirith, another tall city, had dozens of rivulets running through the rock so there were fountains on all seven levels. Here; water had to be lugged from the creek. 

Judging by the dust on the floors, no one had opened hidden doors for centuries. He did wander about with a torch looking for artifacts. The story below the roof had seen some use. Orcs used it as a staging area when Gandalf was confined on top of the tower. Nag Kath remembered the food they would have prepared and spat. He did walk out on the roof of the tower and looked at the four massive stones ringing the corners like a henge. It was quite a view. In better weather he might bring his easel up here.

_______________-------______________

The autumn project for Orthanc was a permanent barn. There were enough horses between the soldiers, miners and drayage to justify replacing the little shed next to the paddock. Saruman’s stables had washed away in the flood. Since they started hauling iron out of the pits, miners’ wagons took scraps to a smelter about 20 miles away, out of the wizard’s hearing. They returned half-full with supplies. In the last three weeks, wagons were heavily laden with sawn-wood for the barn.

Nag Kath was pressed into service. His exceptional balance made him the first choice for walking beams. The Rohirrim all had experience in barn-building. Men of Gondor had construction skills too. For wall-raisings, some of the miners were called up. They would benefit by having a place for their draft animals so it was a fair exchange. Those draft horses and A’mash contributed by hauling rafters on a pulley to the top.

Aleg Solvanth was among those conscripted from the pits. At first he found ways to not be in the same place as the Elf but a loose rafter had all available men scrambling to hold the line while a crew braced from above. Secured, Nag Kath smiled and said in his halting cadence, “Hello Aleg. You are well?”

“Well enough.” A long pause, “How are you?”

“I can not complain.”

That was the extent of the exchange. Nag Kath thought nothing of it but Aleg was relieved. No hard feelings, it seemed. He could still feel that iron claw around his throat – fell creature and Elf-Lord both.

The barn took almost a month to complete. Light snow flurries didn’t stick. The old men were wrong about an early winter. A week after they got the animals in, almost two feet of snow fell. They accounted themselves lucky.

_______________-------______________

Middle-earth was nearing Syndolan, the day after the shortest day of the year. That was a time when all gathered to feast and remember that earth would renew. The miners also revered the day in their own fashion and company. Annas ordered trimmings to make the first level of the tower more festive. Green and silver ribbons, small candles and figurines adorned the halls. Several sacks of mystery ingredients found their way to Rosa’s kitchen. Men cut boughs of fragrant pine and fir to dress the cold rock. Fires were kept roaring to small effect. The fortress was never meant to be comfortable. Woolens and skins stayed on most of the time.

Life seemed a little dull until just before the holiday when one of the miner’s children took seriously ill. She was five and had a high fever at a time when no one else was sick. Her parents sat vigil but hope was fading and her mother could not help but cry. Their healing woman had done what she could.

A delegation of miners came to the tower and petitioned Gandalf’s help. He agreed and appeared a little later on the first level after not being seen on the stairs. That had happened before. Well, he was a wizard! The salvagers had already returned home. Gandalf came down the front steps at the same time Nag Kath was returning from the stable.

“Nag Kath, come along. We’re going to tend an ill child. Do you know anything about healing?”

“No.”

“Come along. We will aid.”

There was a visible trail in the snow which made things easier. Gandalf carried his staff and a small valise which he shoved in the Elf’s stomach. He said nothing else until they reached the shanty-town a few minutes later. An old woman took them to the little girl’s home.

Aleg was her father. He glanced at the two nervously until the wizard asked him, “How long has she been like this?”

“Three days.”

“What have you done for her?”

“The healer brought herbs,” her mother wailed, “but she still burns.”

Gandalf put his staff on the floor, sat on the edge of the bed and touched the child’s forehead. She was fitful but conscious. He leaned over and smiled, “Think of your favorite things.”

To Nag Kath; “Give me the small blue bottle.” The Elf rummaged through the valise and handed it to him. Gandalf took a pinch of powder out and lightly touched the girl’s lips. He put the stopper back in the bottle and dropped it in the bag.

Gandalf then placed his large hands on either side of the child’s face. The wizard closed his eyes and murmured a brief blessing in Elvish. Mirias, that was her name, began to kick her feet and writhe, not enough to loosen Gandalf’s gentle hold but enough to make her mother gasp in fright. The wizard said to anyone listening, “Hold her still.”

Nag Kath was closest. He gently gripped her ankles just above the slippers. A few seconds later the girl’s tiny legs emitted a pale yellow light that spread into Nag Kath’s hands. Then his hands shined slightly silver. The child relaxed immediately. Gandalf didn’t notice until he took his attention from the girl’s face and looked at the glow. Mirias coughed a few times and fell asleep. 

Gandalf took his hands from her and told Nag Kath he could do the same, the aura fading. The gray left her pale face and she started breathing more regularly. Handing her mother another small bottle he fished from the bag, Gandalf said, “A pinch of this in tea twice a day for three more days. Make sure she drinks it all.”

Without further ado, the wizard rose and left. Nag Kath made awkward smiles as a parting gesture and followed. He felt queasy but kept up for fifty paces until retching in the snow. Gandalf stopped and stared at the Elfling. “Do you know what you did?!”

“I threw-up.”

“Yes, yes! What else did you do?”

“Took her feet. Hands shook. Felt warm. Felt pain … no, weakness. Like eating stew ...”

The wizard was agitated. “You healed her. Like an Elf … a skilled Elf!” The wizard’s eyebrows were beetled in concentration. “You pulled the sickness out of her. Did you mean to do that?”

“No.”

“You just did it?”

“Feel … feeling come to me when I hold. Like my pain, but very small.”

The White Wizard nodded in thought for a moment. “Good work, Nag Kath. Good work!”

They trudged the rest of the way in silence. Gandalf thought; well, he is an Elf. Why shouldn’t he have some healing talent? It was time to take him more seriously. In the fading light he also noticed Nag Kath was losing some of his baby face. Perhaps in his transformation at six months old he had been given the youngest Elf face that could go on a full-grown frame. Now it was maturing.

“Good work, my lad.”

_______________-------______________

Syndolan Eve started with a snow flurry giving way to sunshine by noon. The soldiers and their women did not ordinarily drink much but Annas, bless her heart, managed to get a barrel of Rohan red on one of the wagons. Heartier than the brews of the south, it was prized when it could be found. Evidently the harvest this year was strong.

They ate and enjoyed the party at dinnertime. Afterwards, Gandalf had a special surprise. Syndolan was his favorite holiday. He had some of the secret packets delivered to his room and crafted fireworks in green and white, the colors of the season. Nag Kath watched him mix the powders that morning waiting to haul the rockets to a higher balcony.

When it was dark enough, everyone huddled outside to enjoy the show. The wizard was in his element and worked his way through lesser sparklers to the white and green rockets with their rooster tails. At first, the salvagers were sure this was new devilry inflicted by their capricious godlings. The children did as all children do; ohhing and ahhing with each flash. Soon the parents relented and most families came outside to watch. Mirias sat on Aleg’s shoulders squealing in delight. The display only lasted half a bell because it was too cold for the little ones, but Gandalf had a wonderful time. His only regret was that the salvagers knew the Nazgûl hadn’t really returned.

Back inside, it was time to sing. Gandalf hosted them with his rich baritone. Syndolan had its own songs that everyone remembered from childhood. Nag Kath managed to learn a few of the repeating lines in time for the tune to end. He already liked Rohan red. This wasn’t a tavern so by the nine-bell, everyone said good night and found their rooms. All agreed Annas was a right good hostess.

_____________-------_____________

The next day, those on duty reported on time but might have moved a bit gingerly. Ale did not affect Nag Kath. He went for a swim, proving beyond a shadow of doubt he was quite mad. A few hours later, he saw Annas with her black slate counting odds and ends. Chores being slow, he asked her to explain what she was doing. Annas taught both her children and gave the same presentation to the tall youngster.

“Come with me.” They walked to the large storeroom behind the kitchen. “We have twelve bags of oats. I make a mark like this,” drawing a short, vertical line, “for each one.” She counted one through nine and then said, “For the tenth, I draw a line though them to show I am done. Then I start another set with two more, like this. Here, you try.”

She handed him the slate and chalk. He drew nine lines and crossed them. Then he added the other two.

“Very good. Now, let us say there were many bags. I would start another group above these with one mark for each completed group like this, one up here for each ten below.”

Nag Kath seemed to be taking this all in so she continued with the next lesson.

“If I have different things to count, I can put them up here. Bags of oats, hams, boots for the men, cloth … draw a little picture of the item next to the count.”

Nag Kath said with his charming grin, “Thank you, Annas. Now I learn.”

His smile, no, his whole demeanor, slowly became an expression of steely determination. Annas had not seen this face before. In Orthanc, only Aleg had. This was the visage of a grave Elf Lord and she wondered how she had ever thought of him as anything else.

“Annas, we must go see Gandalf. It is important.”

To Nag Kath the boy she would have begged off, if only to avoid all those stairs after last night’s ale. She would not refuse this creature and slowly nodded.

He added, “Thank you. Please bring your slate”

The two wordlessly wound up the stairs to Gandalf’s study. Lemas was standing outside but the door was open.

“Hello Lemas. Can we see Gandalf?”

Together, he wondered? She wouldn’t be here, with him, if something wasn’t afoot. The Elf looked different. Lemas poked his head in the office and said, “Gandalf, begging your pardon sir, but Annas and Nag would like a word.”

The wizard was standing just inside the door and leaned around the jamb. He looked to Annas first but she glanced sidelong at the Elf. “What is it, Nag Kath?”

“I want Annas to show you.”

The wizard nodded, “Come in.”

“Annas, can you show Gandalf counting?”

She looked at the wizard as if to say this wasn’t her idea but he gave no sign of exasperation. The Elf had done yeoman work lately and he could indulge him a few minutes. Gandalf didn’t actually know how the unlettered did their sums so hearing her repeat the lesson wasn’t entirely dull, and it was over quickly.

Nag Kath said graciously, “Thank you, Annas.” Then he looked directly at Gandalf. 

As with Annas below; the boy fell away and he became the imposing figure within. In the Black Speech he growled, **“ _You look for Saruman’s papers but you find none. He did not make them. Orcs are not so smart. They make notes to remember. He tells them how to make different Uruk-hai – different things to mix, like fire powders. You have seen the breeding pools underground?”_ **

The wizard nodded.

Elf-Lord eyes bore in, **_“You saw little marks, faces, counting next to them?”_**

Nag Kath waited for the explosion like when he revealed the secret panel. Instead, the old man closed his eyes as two thousand years of worry fell away. Nag Kath was concerned the wizard may need to sit down when Gandalf turned to Annas with his sweetest smile, “I don’t know how to thank you my dear. You have been more help to me than you know.” 

That much was certain. The housekeeper had no idea how explaining how to count hams mattered, but she could take a compliment. Rising with a smile of her own, she bowed deeply before joining Lemas in the hall. Gandalf nodded to Nag Kath who followed Annas out.

_______________-------______________

That was it! That was the answer.

The White Hand of Isengard had not dictated or kept a diary or wrote much about anything after his seduction by dark power. Gandalf did not recall him ever keeping records. Saruman had an extraordinary memory. Why would he change a lifetime habit to chronicle these creatures? But Nag Kath was right. The orcs would have to carry, pour and mix accurate proportions of foul ingredients in preparation for the life Saruman would sorcerously breathe into unique strains of Uruk-hai. Expecting the orcs to remember many combinations would be asking too much.

Gandalf did visit the pits. And he saw the breeding pools with scratches on the walls that had no meaning at the time.

The relief was palpable. This was his primary reason to stay in Middle-Earth. The Uruk-hai were manufactured, a process that could be repeated until today. Men would solve their property disputes, or not. The archives were in order. He hadn’t found the seventh lock but that would be Gondor’s problem soon enough.

Fixing this would be simplicity itself. A handful of those silver tenth-Florins would keep the illiterate miners happy for days defacing markings in the rock and dumping the chips in the deepest pit. Redirecting the little streams would wash away the paint and residue in the pools. That was evidence too.

Solving this huge riddle accelerated another and created a third. When should he leave Orthanc? Spring was probably best. He had said his goodbyes in Minas Tirith. Before sailing to the Undying Lands he must see Galadriel and Celeborn in Lorien and join their party making for Rivendell in the summer. There would be Hobbits to see on the way to the Grey Havens harbor. Two crates of archives were ready to send ahead. Yes, he could now join the remaining White Council rather than chip holes in this black tower. There was plenty of time. The blue wizards would remain a mystery.

Now, what to do about Nag Kath? Aragorn had charged him with the Elf’s fate. Gandalf might have thought a lesser man was shirking an unpleasant task but the King was quite correct, Nag Kath’s creation and talents fell to Gandalf’s jurisdiction. First, he must be sure this was not a wicked seed waiting to sprout after the guardians were gone. That seemed less likely now. Melkor had sung discordantly from the start of the great music. Sauron never drew freckled washerwomen.

Even if Nag Kath was as innocent as he seemed, he might still become a power in his own right. The last immortal in a world where men and Dwarves must die could eventually fall to corruption. Departing Elves made no claim on him. Looking like an Elf was not enough. Truly being an Elf meant a lifetime of training and understanding. And Elves were never alone. Perhaps they would relent ere the last ship sailed for Valinor. 

Well, if Nag Kath left Orthanc alive, Gandalf must outline a path with the greatest chance of harmony. The Elf, and he was an Elf, should explore every foot of Middle-Earth; know it, live it, be of it. Gandalf would help him develop those healing skills – very handy in this world of pain. 

His other gifts were harder. Would they gain in strength? Should Gandalf help him or let him learn on his own? Or should he do as the Rohirrim teased and turn him into a toad? 

It could wait until spring. 


	17. Purpose

**_Chapter 17_ **

**_Purpose_ **

The next day Nag Kath had an unusually leisurely morning. He raided Rosas’ larder for a few things and walked around to the new barn for a few more. The malaise from Rohan red had dissipated and people were about their business, including in the pits. 

He strolled down the path to the main opening and clambered down with a satchel and a covered pail. Half a dozen salvagers were milling around waiting for the bucket crew below to start loading iron. These were hard men but they were not comfortable having the Kath demon so close.

Said demon announced, “I need one of you to go with me to the breeding pools.” Every one of them found something interesting about their boots. “The man must have strong hands! You!” he said to the man who had pointed him towards the charcoal what seemed like ages ago. “Open your hands.”

The fellow was not happy, but this Kath creature was not to be directly disobeyed. The Elf made a show of examining the back of his hands and then turned them over. With sleight of hand that would have made Lentaraes proud, he slid a silver tenth into one palm and closed them both. “You will serve. Come with me.”  
  


Nag Kath turned on his heel and marched down the broken trail into the darkness. One of the men handed the conscript a lit torch and a spare on his way by. Neither said anything. All the while, the Elf watched the man use every ounce of willpower not to bite the coin. A minute later they met Proytas, the miner whose foot was impaled. He walked with a pronounced limp but he was walking.

They startled him. He saw his fellow scratcher first and then froze his eyes on the Elf. Nag Kath asked, “How is your foot?” No one had ever told him the man’s name.

“What’s that to you?”

“Just keeping-up.”

The wiry man’s eyes still shone brightly, “I’ll get by.”

“Good.”

Nag Kath started to walk again but the man said in a pained voice, “Why didn’t you kill me? Ya coulda. Ya coulda and no one coulda stopped ya.” Almost pleading, “Why?” Their devils did not flinch from destruction.

The Elf walked over to him and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “For your children.” And then he was gone with the young miner trying to keep up.

Nag Kath had only been here once to deliver a message. After two wrong turns and a near fall by his torchbearer, they made the pits. Arguably life was created here but the air sucked all vitality from flesh. These were nine natural fissures in the porous rock ranging from eight feet around to twenty feet and generally about half that much deep that had been chipped larger by the orcs. At the first one they reached, Nag Kath sat on the floor and took his sketch pad out of the satchel.

The miner cleared his throat. The Elf looked up to him and said, “This will take small time.” 

The fellow shifted his weight from foot to foot and whimpered, “Can I go now? I mean, I brung ya here, din't I?” Nag Kath reached into his satchel and tossed the man a block of cheese. Money and food! He could stay a little longer. 

The Elf quickly sketched the foul face painted above a series of hash marks in different colors. He didn’t think the faces looked anything like his fellow Uruks but these were painted by orcs and they had no reason to flatter. The marks below were the only history of his life. He did not copy them. The changeling would make his own history.

Face complete, he handed his helper the pail which was full of red barn stain. “Here, paint big circle around those marks. Then, come with me. He repeated that at the other eight pools. Far more than the usual markings were over a small tub holding what looked like tadpoles, now long dried and shriveled. After peering over the precipice to be sure there weren’t pools below, they made their way back up the path. The second torch expired with a third of the way to go so Nag Kath had the man hold his shirttail for safety. 

Reaching the rest of the topside miners, Nag Kath said to his helper, “Good hands!” and lightly touched his nose with his forefinger. Eomander would be back here tomorrow with more silver tenths and instructions for pounding the carvings to dust. For less cash than the solstice party (not that he knew), the orcish recipes were smashed from the rocks and the terrible faces scrubbed away. Gandalf inspected the pools, just as Saruman had many times, applying a few crafted fire-spells to finish the job.

_______________-------______________

Gandalf had unexpected free time. The wizard decided to take Radagast’s advice and trust the Elf, just a little. Nag Kath’s fledgling healing talents were definitely Elvish. His quick movement felt more like those of a sorcerer. Lore seemed the best way to probe Nag Kath’s aptitudes. By February the Elf could speak enough of the common tongue that telling stories wasn’t an ordeal. Gandalf kept mostly to the Third Age. Describing Elves of the Eldar-days felt awkward because this Elf had been disowned by his ancient kin. Gandalf chose to include them because this was formerly the land of Elves, even if they were sailing away.

Word was creeping in that bands of Silvan Elves in the deep forests were not moving towards the coast. Some had left, but it was not an exodus. The lowest rung of Elvish society, they might be of no mind to continue that relationship across the water with several more layers of Caliquendi (Elves-of-the-Light) who heeded the command of the gods and migrated west. Woodland Elves might even find common purpose with this changeling, thought he looked like a Teleri Elf, for what that was worth. 

Nag Kath had no emotional response one way or the other about Elves, but for all subjects, he absorbed every word, asking questions occasionally while cataloging names and places. Gandalf never quite reconciled himself to the very un-Elvish knitted brows and toothy grins of this specimen. Nag Kath surprised the wizard more than once by confirming a minor point when it crossed a later event, asking if a city of old was where a modern city stood now. Saruman’s map archive helped immensely. Nag Kath also remembered quite a few historical paintings and tapestries from Minas Tirith. When one obscure king found his way into the wizard’s tale, the Elf asked if he wore a blue tunic. For more general subjects, Gandalf would talk downstairs and let the children attend. He chuckled to himself that the tall Elf was the youngest of them at three years old while the little tykes were twice that at least. That must be why he wondered bright-eyed at each revelation.

Nag Kath’s favorite theme was travel in far lands. He had already seen from central Gondor through northern Rohan. He had seen peaks where the snow never melted. Further yet was the sea, vast beyond imagining, filled with nothing but salt flavored water. In the other direction were dry, sandy tracks where people must protect themselves from the sun. Oliphants still lived there. And there were huge monuments of people who walked the earth thousands of years ago. The changeling always enjoyed hearing about Bilbo the Halfling; bold, wise and filled with mirth!

One of the changeling’s difficulties was; understanding the Valar and their servants, Gandalf being one of them. The dark lord was another. They lived far-away in a place only Elves could reach. That didn’t include Nag Kath, evidently. Some gods lived underwater. Some in the heavens. They had great powers, although in different roles. When the sun and moon came up, Gandalf explained that servants bore them across the sky. The fairest of all the Holy Ones arrayed the stars. 

The exception was the Star of Eärendil that appeared in the evening to move at different speeds than the constellations circling the earth. Eärendil was a mannish hero made Elf in honor. Now he sailed his ship in the sky with a great, shining jewel on his brow. His wife Elwing became a swan to fly to him when he completed his journeys.

That was a bridge too far for the poor Uruk-hai! He had seen ships from a distance on the Anduin. They could fly like birds … and his woman turned into a swan? A swan was a goose. Men ate geese and made pillows with the feathers. Nag Kath nodded with an orcish frown, his way of acknowledging the information without comprehension.

His apparent confusion wasn’t celestial navigation. If the wizard said it was so, that settled it. What Gandalf didn’t realize was that he described a creature that had been promoted from man to Elf for bravery in battle and then given powers by the incomprehensible beings that ruled the sky. In a very liberal interpretation, that happened to the changeling. The next day, the wizard watched from the balcony as his queer pupil ran in the courtyard flapping his arms. 

Curiously, and Gandalf wondered why he had never considered this before, there was no art or very much in the way of written lore about the Ainur and their creation of this world. All in the western parts of Middle-Earth knew the tales. Eastern peoples had their own versions. The tyranny of distance changed those stories every generation no matter where you lived, but there was a common thread. 

Gandalf couldn’t spin yarns for more than an hour a day so Nag Kath dutifully kept sketching. Annas had one of the smelting-town traders secure a stack of fairly large paper. It wasn’t up to Quastille’s standards but it would serve. A lot of the archives were ready to discard and the changeling kept those if the backs were blank.

_______________-------______________

Winter was late arriving and stubborn leaving but it finally loosed its grip on budding trees. Crocus and daffodils sent shoots through once trampled turf. The livestock were tired of hay and ready for green grass. By late March, spring was in the air. At this altitude, that could be a false signal so no one with experience took chances.

The children were remarkably hearty so Nag Kath had few occasions to heal anyone since Mirias. He did cure Mendos of a mighty hangover after a visit to the shanty-town still, same principle, the wizard supposed. Nag Kath seemed a little wobbly for an hour after his intervention. In one of their private meetings Gandalf told the elfling that his calling might be healing the sick and injured. He should travel these lands and divine the secrets of all peoples. The changeling seemed to have few goals so perhaps that would urge him towards longer-term contemplation. There never would have been a reason for an Uruk-hai to consider his future.

Only a few of the tower staff were lettered so the Elf would have to learn reading on his own. He could recognize names on the maps he copied but he drew them rather than wrote them. That might speed things later.

Then there was the issue of his origin. Nag Kath had started his life spawned in a basin then transferred to a stew of noxious slimes. That was true of every Uruk but he was the last of them. Saruman’s hand in his talents was still unknown. It might have even been recorded in the scratchings chiseled to gravel.

Gandalf decided it was time. He slipped the broken staff crown into one of his many concealed pockets and made his way downstairs. No one saw how he got there. Nag Kath was walking A’mash so the wizard sent Eomander’s lad Coran to fetch him. Ten minutes later the Elf dashed around the tower to the courtyard.

“Walk with me, Nag Kath.” They made their way towards the main gate. The wizard said nothing for a hundred yards. Then he turned back towards the tower and pulled the metal fragment from his robe. It was already glowing. He held it against the backdrop of the tower. It was new to Nag Kath. He saw the light when he fetched the matches but not what made it.

“Here, you try.” Gandalf handed Nag Kath the remnant. It glowed much brighter but out here in the sun it wasn’t blinding. The Elf held it against the top of the tower and saw the resemblance. He felt a current of power flow through him. “I will trade you.” Gandalf give the Elf his staff and took the fragment. “Pass your hand over the top, like this.”

On the third try, Nag Kath got the crystal to flicker feebly but no more. Gandalf took the staff back, sighed, then smiled, “Now for the hardest thing to explain. Let us sit over there on the mound.” 

They made their way twenty yards to the north where green grass was asserting itself despite being crushed under Uruk formations. Making themselves comfortable, Gandalf continued, “You should not have been able to make this light at all. Not even one of the great Elves I told you about could have done that.” Pulling the crown fragment out of this pocket again he said, “And nobody alive should be able to make this glow. This was part of Saruman’s staff. It was his alone.”

Nag Kath seemed to be taking this all in stride. “I am part of Saruman?”

“I think so, dear boy. I think so. I do not know how or why but I believe your ability to move so quickly came from him. That is probably why you did not die when the ring was destroyed.”

“Or slain by ghosts?” He knew the word from campfire stories through Rohan.

“What ghosts?!”

“They say a great battle in Minas Tirith. Orcs were killed by ghosts. They came in my cell. I see … sorry … saw them. They did not see me. Ghosts came through the rock. They glowed too.”

Yes, of course! The army of the dead! He was held on the second level and the dead chased the orcs as far as the third. At the battle of Pelennor Fields, he would have still been a full-blood Uruk-hai. There must have been magic in him that far back.

“Yes, ghosts too.” This called for a smoke. Gandalf pulled his pipe from yet another pocket. Scratching a match against a stone he lit the bowl and breathed out a smoke ring. With no wind it held intact for ten feet. “We will be leaving here soon. I must see to things in the west. I would like you to go north, away from your banishment. You may find answers there.”

Nag Kath sounded older, “I thought about that. Would it be good to follow great Bilbo's path? See mountain, lake, Dale?”

Gandalf took a puff and said, “Well, that’s got some north to it. Yes, that might be a good way for you to go. You will have to travel through Mirkwood. And you may have to deal with the Woodland Elves. I will give you a note for their king. He doesn’t care for visitors. Be careful of dark spirits! They are still out there.”

Gandalf took the staff remnant out of his pocket and turned it in his fingers. “Remember to heal. That will be how you will make your way. In this world there is need for healing pain and trouble after this terrible war. It will help people forget what you were. I hope you will not use your powers to hurt them. You settled with that miner wisely. Always remember that. Never take a life unless at the end of need … and you should keep your other skills unseen! There are those who will take offense.”

Nag Kath looked at the fragment and said, “You keep that. I will make my own way.”

That was the right thing to say.

_______________-------______________

The next month passed the same way. Nag Kath learned as much as he could. His Westron was quite understandable now despite an unplaceable accent. One of the teamsters arrived with a cough. Gandalf had Nag Kath hold his hands and the glow returned. It wasn’t as bright as the ancient high-Elves’ aura, but it was Elvish. The fellow hacked and spat for a few hours but seemed improved by the time he returned to smelting-town.

There was one more thing that made parting sweet.

With improved spring light, Nag Kath had taken to sketching some of the architectural molding around the first level. It was extraordinary craftsmanship unrivaled by modern builders. There were elements of Numenor and early Arnor in the design. Along the inside of the long hall were four arches supported by pillars. Each had an identical carved motif with a combination of plants and flowers. A little bored, the Elf drew the first in some detail. Then he went to the next to compare features. When he got to the third, he noticed a small slot between the stalks of two tulips. It was hard to tell, maybe just relief carving.

Nag Kath made a soft “O” with his mouth and stood for a closer look. Tucking his drawing under his arm, he ran up the stairs two at a time.

Legatorn was on duty one floor below, just as he had been when the Elf first arrived. The Elf poked his head in the security office and said he was going up to see the wizard. Nag Kath was now approved anytime, unless nobody was, so Legatorn waved him up.

“Gandalf, can I show you a picture?”

"Hmmmm." Shuffling some papers, “Yes, what do you have?”

The Elf laid his sketch on the table and spun it half around.

“Corridor of long room. Decoration over arches. You know these?”

“I do.”

“All the same but one, here, has a small cut, right there.”

This time, Gandalf did repeat his command when the secret wall vault was found, “Show me!”

They hurried by Legatorn’s station and scurried to the long hall. A couple cleaning women watched with wide eyes. Gandalf said hurriedly, “Ladies, tell two of the lads to bring me the rolling stairs from the pantry. Off you go!”

While they were waiting, Nag Kath showed him the discrepancy between the four panels. They were crafted by a master. The only difference was that little slot between the stalks.

Lemas and Mendos wheeled the stair/ladder from the empty library to the wizard and Elf. “Over here a little! Good. Mendos, take this.” He gave the burly soldier his staff. The man winced like he had been handed a live Tilor snake but did not let go.

Gandalf climbed eight or nine feet up and clanked through his un-oatmealed keys. Knowing exactly which to use, he slid the tip into the slot. It turned with a satisfying click. He had to back down a couple steps to pull the entire carved panel open on concealed hinges.

“Mendos, hand me my staff”

The guard gladly climbed four treads to slide the cursed pole into Gandalf’s left hand. The wizard stepped up to his first perch and passed his fingers by the crystal. He reached in and touched the contents. As he did, two more soldiers walked over. Their women joined them. Miners’ wives peeped from the safety of the hall to the kitchen.

After a minute, Gandalf descended two steps down, shut the door and locked it, dropping his keys in a pocket. “Good, that’s settled.” Looking down at his captivated employees he asked, “Do you think Rosas can find me something to eat?”

Everyone, even the clueless Elf, knew better than to open their mouth. It took two days of constant speculation until Coran was coached to innocently ask what the wizard found. As if it was hardly worth mentioning, Gandalf said, “Oh, it is the original miter of King Elendil thought lost at Dagorlad. The replacement is in Minas Tirith. Probably put here for safekeeping and someone forgot.” A puff of his pipe, “Make sure I tell the delegation from Gondor when they get here next month”.

Gandalf didn’t care for curios. He had seven keys and he wanted seven locks. There were no Uruk recipes. That was done. When the passes were clear of snow it would be time to leave.


	18. Repatriation

**_Chapter 18_ **

**_Repatriation_ **

A week after the anti-climax of the seventh lock, Gandalf told Eomander and Annas he would leave soon after the repatriation conference. As Rohirrim in what was officially Gondor again, they had decisions to make. To smooth the way, he handed them a small purse of gold nippers – a veritable fortune to a working rider of the Mark. There would be no need to raise other men’s horses. Sworn to brief silence, he had them assemble the other staff after the miners’ families returned to their village. 

Addressing everyone in the main hall, Gandalf said “I need you to prepare for guests. As you know, we can expect people from Rohan and Gondor plus some of the smaller nations who have claim on Saruman’s stealings. I would appreciate you staying to help them until they have enough time to settle matters.” He did not say until matters were settled because that could take another age. Time enough was plenty unless they found employment with the new landlord.

“And remember, things must go smoothly.”

The men from Gondor, one of whom had his family here, could make easy choices. Their experience would be greatly valued along with Gandalf’s references. Or they could return home. Legitorn was now a man of the Reunited Kingdom so that applied to him too. The Rohirrim did not have far to go. Some of Saruman’s gold would grease the skids.

Every soldier was given two Florin in assorted coins. That would reduce the danger of needing to make change publicly. Unusually, and possibly the cause of domestic turmoil, their wives received the same as the men. Women of Gondor could have their own possessions and estates. Married women of Rohan had fewer rights. Gandalf knew all of this but didn’t care. The King of Gondor wouldn’t miss the money, bless his heart. Horses were privately owned already. The day-servants would each be given half a Florin in silver tenths and groats. Eomander had gifts for the miners when Gandalf left.

Three days later the first delegation arrived; six Dwarves from Erebor came to inspect and lay claim to Dwarvish articles lost to Saruman the deceiver. Leading was the new King’s cousin, Tombor. Traveling alongside were four men of Dale including; a scholar, a man of the purse and two soldiers.

One of the ground-rules for this moot was that items of cultural significance or identifiable to free peoples would be returned to them. That primarily covered artifacts and should be straightforward. The oldest society tied to the item would lay claim. The same applied to documents and literature of each area. What they didn’t take would stay here as archives of Northern Gondor and Arnor.

The more difficult part was suing for reparations caused by this villainy. There was cash, jewels, regalia and some very nice trinkets that weren’t culturally specific. Everyone suffered greatly. There was not enough money in the world to repopulate lands that would lay fallow for generations. Somehow these people had to settle the bloody estate of Saruman.

The Dwarves weren’t here for the cash. They wouldn’t refuse it, but nobody thought them downtrodden. Significant articles had been pilfered over the years by the first white wizard and they would see for themselves. Annas had laid-in stocks of foods and drink popular with Dwarves – but not too much of the latter. The last thing this convocation needed was a pub brawl. 

Next to arrive was the Gondor contingent. This was more formal because the head would be the new provost for the region after this council. Edomar Dolthanan was one of the officers who rallied men into the battle when Denethor dithered. It cost him an ear but earned him respect. He was also an administrator, coming from the quartermaster’s side of the service. After dividing the spoils, his job was to consolidate the region west of Isengard into South Dunland and protect the Old South Road from the Isen to the Dusenorn.

Dolthanan was not expecting to be handed the keys. Gandalf’s arrangement with King Elessar was that the wizard would control Isengard until he had exorcized fell sorceries and evil to his satisfaction. That could have taken years. The Provost Marshal wouldn’t maintain the region with the ten men he brought. They were coming later and would include soldiers from the Arnor side of the family, more for optics than strength. Dolthanan was pleased when half a dozen experienced Gondorans saluted crisply on his arrival.

King Éomer’s representatives rode-in the next day. There were only four of them with six outriders but they had the shortest trip. Nag Kath recognized one of them as an officer with King Éomer and Captain Altheras on the steps of Meduseld. The other three were retired soldiers studied in lore. 

They were primarily here for the cash. Rohan did not cherish artifacts from the past except weapons and personal kit from renowned countrymen. They had suffered greatly from Saruman’s Uruk-hai and Wildmen. Most of what their land needed could only be replenished with births, but there were many families who lost their breadwinners. Importing basics that local hands could not make was of great moment. Their few artifacts were easily spotted and no one begrudged their claims.

Finally came eight representatives from questionable lands to either the west or east. Four were men of the Wilderland. Not all of the Dunlendings were wild or allied with Saruman. Some were hostile to him. They paid dearly when Sauron ordered his wizard to subdue the land. Now officially part of the Reunited Kingdom, this congress seemed a good way to make their case to the new central power that loyal subjects needed whatever help they could get. The men were surprisingly civilized and spoke the common tongue better than expected. The other four were from Dorwinion. They had reclaimed lands from the Easterlings below Dale and were rebuilding the rich, fertile farmlands.

Gandalf was the host but kept out of the proceedings except to help identify objects with questionable provenance. To his amazement, everyone was well behaved. Gimli, son of Gloin, sent word to the Dwarves that they should find those things that belonged to them and make friends. Lord Tombor agreed. Fortunately, the Rohan red beer was to their liking. Quite a few objects belonged to peoples that had not sent representatives. Articles of the Hobbits, river people and men of Cardolan were in the cache. Marshal Dolthanan decided to hold those here for now and send them home when appointed representatives came to call. Elvish artifacts were handled separately. 

To Gandalf’s relief, the cash wasn’t contentious either. Dorwinion and Dunnish needs were handled discreetly in direct negotiation with the King’s representative. Too much too soon would only be re-stolen. The Dwarves had a trove of personal objects that would take all of them to carry back but would leave with no coin. They had already banked the Rohan red beer. 

Elessar’s instruction to Dolthanan was to take good care of Rohan. As all knew, it was not a society based on money, but they could surely buy things of need. Part of their share was used to pay for a series of grain shipments that would travel the same road Nag Kath did last fall.

Nag Kath’s status took a turn. He wasn’t known here as a former Uruk-hai. When the Rohirrim arrived, the story got out. One of the escorts was Corporal Darwes’ brother. After seeing the beardless teenager, most neither believed nor cared about the orcish parts, but more than a few ales were hoisted on tales of rending warg hearts! That he had only skewered a scratcher’s foot in all his time here showed amazing restraint. Everyone marveled at Captain Altheras’ sword. One of the learned Rohirrim explained the ancient Westemnet inscription on the guard, “ ** _Strength follows Honor._** ” Even the Lorist of the Mark could not read that full language but knew the revered motto.

Not everyone was charmed. Trooper Alwyn was the last of his family, which left one orc too many. He was civil until a get-together towards the end of the moot where beverages were served. He walked up to Tolanger and Nag Kath with a mug in one hand and punched the changeling in the mouth with the other.

Tolanger, to his credit, did not pick sides and jumped between them as Alwyn screamed a torrent of oaths and tried to claw through for another blow. Nag Kath was quick enough to deflect some of the force but he still staggered. ‘The Fast’ seethed to his fingertips. He could have easily torn the Rohirrim to shreds. Gandalf told him to hold that power in abeyance. That seemed like a bad idea in the moment, but the fledgling Elf finally had enough perspective to consider the future. By then, other revelers had joined in restraining Alwyn, still determined to finish his assault. Nag Kath spat blood, wiped his chin with his sleeve and walked into the hall.

“How is your mouth?”

“It will heal.”

The Elf was sitting with his elbows on his knees, compacting his rangy frame and staring into space. The wizard sat next to him on the window-well and patted him on the shoulder. “That will happen again. Are you prepared?” Gandalf took his small pipe from a pocket, considered it a moment and put it back.

“Not really. Will I always be hated?”

“The Uruk will. What you become will tell. It may take a generation or two of men, but that is not long. You can’t understand that now.”

The changeling rubbed his teeth with his tongue, nodding slowly. The wizard seemed caring but he was mostly looking for evil. His pupil had passed a significant, if unplanned test. Just like Aragorn had allowed before, the creature would leave Orthanc alive. It was a relief to Gandalf the White, Maia to the King of the Valar Manwë. Saruman’s ill-begotten henchman could make his way into this the Fourth Age of men. 

The question remaining was whether the changeling’s powers were transferred from the White Hand of Saruman or whether they were of the unaffiliated magiks roiling in earth before the dawn of history. Not all humors were fell, fair or committed. Some had been servants who now had no loyalty. No, loyalty was too charitable. They no longer had a knife at their throat. 

Gandalf looked at the glum youngster and lit his pipe with his finger. 

_______________-------______________

Sooner than it seemed, everyone but the Gondorans were gone. The Rohirrim left on their short trip home with the bulk of Saruman’s strongbox. Gandalf’s own Rohan guards had enough geld in their pockets to make a new life. No less than three troopers swore on their swords that ales would be drunk at the Falcon’s Lair in Edoras! 

The miners were about done too. They sent their own delegation to the tower. Gandalf gave them two of the wagons in the stable and Eomander distributed a purse of silver tenth’s that the Provost wouldn’t miss. Dolthanan was too excited about Elendil’s mitre. That was a significant find but it would stay here until he received specific instructions otherwise. 

It was time to go. Gandalf traveled light. He had his own white horse and a pack animal for his travels. The archives for the Undying Lands were crated and would be discreetly taken by Elves on their way west now that the men and Dwarves were heading home. Nag Kath left with little more than he brought. He had managed some better clothes through Annas’ good graces. A’mash was fitted for the road. 

In the courtyard, Gandalf gave Nag Kath a bear hug with emotion that had been slow in coming. He handed him a purse of coins. And he gave him some advice. “Treat people well in hope they will of you. Help those in pain though it causes you pain. Fight the enemy! You, among those left in Middle-earth, know the essence of wrong! Learn as much as you can about this new world for it has all changed. For the better, I believe, but you must find that out for yourself. I cannot help but think we will meet again someday. Take good care, my lad.”

No words would come, Nag Kath just smiled with love, turned and whistled for the mule.

_____________-------_____________

On the same day many leagues to the south, King Elessar Telcontar felt the wind on his face. A month before he resolved to get more exercise. His favorite belt felt a little snug. The sedentary life of an administrator was making him think small. Large breaths create large thoughts, the old saying went. He was riding a new mare at a near run across the Pelennor. She was spirited, in fine trim and, like most horses of Rohan, sensitive to knee pressure so riders could manage their weapons. 

Riding her was a guilty pleasure. The King had to violate his own prohibition against government officials accepting valuable gifts. It was in a greater cause and wouldn’t happen often. Before leaving, King Éomer presented grooms holding eight mares and four stallions. The finest bloodlines of the Mark coursed through their veins. Their former riders would not be going home. Aragorn had already inhaled to start his polite refusal when Éomer said, “Once you accepted a gift of horses from me when you were in need. That brought my land great fortune. Please accept these so that our luck may continue through their progeny.”

Good relations with his friend Éomer easily trumped officious moral stances so Aragorn gratefully accepted. The horses were stabled with Gondor mounts for now but a stud farm being built in Lossarnach on the north bank of the Erol River would be ready for them and other fine breeds within the month. 

His rides and sword practice had already paid-off with improved decisions. On the second day out, he decided he would reduce Harad’s reparations to having prisoners and conscripts destroy the terrible Nazgûl fortress, Minas Morgul. There was not enough time in the day to squeeze peoples with nothing to give.

A few days later he asked Mr. Tallazh to become the newly created Minister of Trade. Tallazh agreed and was needed. The King thought like a warrior but the days of great wars were over for now. While always needing to be prepared, they were entering a day of skirmishes. Reconstructing the old kingdom would not erase jealousy and border disputes between traditional rivals. Amedies Tallazh understood the value of things in different places around the realm. And Gondor now had vast unprotected land – all the way to Dale, depending on who you asked. Reduced to groats, the kingdom could not guard the periphery. Those people had always been on their own, but it would be wise to reach an understanding.

Gondor’s financial situation was strong but there were personal benefits for Aragorn as well. The protocol for the creation of stewards some 900 years ago divided income and outflows into two distinct tracks. By far the larger was revenue and expenditures for the realm. Those were as they had always been. The royal family’s Privy Purse was largely depleted with the last king. The new, smaller track was for the Steward’s use and was part of his personal estate. Over long years, some did better than others but private funds kept them from beggaring themselves to the national administration for upkeep. They were stewards, not kings, and did not have unlimited fiat under the stipulations.

With his posting as Steward and Prince of Ithilien, Denethor’s surviving child, Faramir, chose to only accept his mother’s contribution to his inheritance, which was the bulk of it. Those funds and properties alone were easily enough to support his station. Most of the costs of his new fief were covered in the national budget … and he had recently married well.

Denethor’s legacy became the new Privy Purse. After 89 years of being the poor relation, Aragorn's tastes were simple. It was more than he ever thought of spending. But the stud farm was his. He paid the crown the value of the Rohan horses from his own funds. If he and Arwen had more than one child, the younger siblings would not be completely dependent on the heir.

Aragorn dismounted and walked Lastilleth to one of the clean streams leading south across the Pelennor Fields. While she drank, the king looked back at the prow and marveled, as he always did, at the extraordinary engineering of its water supply. Fresh, clear water seeped from the mountain behind the city between layers of solid rock. It must have been why the site was chosen.

They would have been sizeable streams when they emerged from the surface. The city fathers harnessed them into two sets of pipes. One was the fresh water supply. It had valves to maintain constant pressure and not flood in heavy rain. Those pipes fed fountains, troughs and taps on each level of the city to either side of the prow. Some private homes had their own supply. Another stream further north ran to West Osgiliath. The eastern side had to use Anduin water since the river from Minas Morgul was still tainted.

The second system of flow started with water diverted from the original sources combined with runoff from the fountains that carried waste-water down and away from the city to large leach-fields on either side of the prow. Those were popular with vegetable farmers.

Each level had pipes spaced along the switchbacks for residents to deposit their night-soil. They were grated and covered by hinged wooden tops for obvious reasons. Proximity to them affected property prices. Every day, save holidays, people gave "honey wagons" a wide berth collecting subscribers' buckets. Non-subscribers weren't always diligent about that responsibility. One didn’t want to be known as a violator so neighborhoods policed themselves. Rain went into a series of gutters that were less organized than the piping systems but did not seep into them either.

Lastilleth snorted. She hadn’t drunk too much after the hard ride, a smart horse. The King remounted, nodded to two outriders who knew to maintain a discreet distance and cantered back to the gate. 


	19. On His Own

**_Chapter 19_ **

**_On His Own_ **

Maps; Middle-earth large, Eregion, Greyflood Basis and, especially, Dunland help with the next few chapters. <https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8>

For the first time in his short life, Nag Kath was free. He had the power to choose what he would do and when. Unlike creatures with childhoods, he never had objectives to grow into. For now, the goal was to go someplace where he wasn’t an enemy and try healing. He would draw a few pictures too. Folk who looked like him were said to be in western Arnor. He would start there.

In his almost daily talks with Gandalf after the finding of the Uruk-hai glyphs, his origins came up many times. On the theory that he was now what his people had been before their corruption into orcs by Morgoth, he was likely of the Avari or “Unwilling” Elves. But he didn’t particularly look like one. Too tall and broad-shouldered, perhaps he would never shed the Uruk-hai frame. His hair was a sandy blonde. If he let it grow long it would be Elvish enough. He seemed a high Elf of some sort. Properly dressed, and if he could ever suppress that farm-boy grin, Gandalf thought he could pass in Lothlórien, possibly Alqualondë in the Undying Lands.

Nag Kath was a sharp student but he never quite wrapped his arms around the creation of the Elves. They stayed or left. They divided, reunited, were destroyed and traveled constantly, all while the land and seas shifted beneath their very feet. Now the ones in this world were leaving for another.

Gandalf later wondered if he did right by Nag Kath in not directing him to Elvish enclaves along his route. It was for his protection. Men and Dwarves might let him live out of respect for Elves, but the Elves themselves would see things differently. Elrond would be fine. Gandalf was not as confident about the Mirkwood contingent or Silvans of the outer forests. If he blundered among them he could take his chances. Gandalf gave him a letter written in Sindarin if he needed references, but had to hope it wouldn’t be found after a sentry put an arrow through noisy changeling’s eye. The wizard also slipped the Elvish hair crown into his student’s pack on the sly. He might grow into the fashion. It was plated with mithril, famed metal of the Dwarves, perhaps solid.

Nag Kath’s rough plan was to travel west through the Gap of Rohan and then turn north following the western side of the Misty Mountains through Dunland and Eregion to Arnor. Dunland had been reclaimed, on paper, by Gondor. Merchant trains were reportedly traveling roads hugging the western foothills following King Elessar’s route to Rivendell after he attended Theoden’s funeral. Gandalf thought Nag Kath might fall in with them. The talents he showed in the Rohirrim train to Edoras would keep everyone safer than they knew.

At high noon, Nag Kath and A’mash found a small stream. A’mash grazed on tender weeds and Nag Kath ate two carrots from his pack. He raided the kitchen before he left for vegetables. Most of the preserved foods were meats which he ignored. A small bag of oats covered emergencies. Not much would be ripe along the trail. 

Elf and mule was a unique combination. Horses now tolerated Nag Kath but he had always intended to walk. This was a journey of discovery, not destination. Bringing the mule was unnecessary. They liked each other’s company.

Fortunately for them there were roads on both sides of the Isen. After fording it at the headwaters above Isengard they would not have to risk another crossing now that it was swollen with snow melt. The track was clear and they made good time. The only people they saw on the first day were the drivers of a salvage wagon returning to Orthanc. There were usually two or three in each train so iron from the pits was dwindling. The teamsters stopped and were friendly. Even they had come to accept him, after a fashion.

The next morning Nag Kath started a fire to boil his oats. He had a flint and steel in the pack and a box of Gandalf’s matches that had been dipped in wax. The wizard also gave him one of the little green bags of fire-powders from the storeroom used to make them since they could not be found in the wild.

Nearing sundown they reached the secondary Salvager town. It was out of Gandalf’s earshot in the Pit of Iron. Most of the miners were still picking slag out of Isengard. When they had to haul rock out of the hills again, and the black, burning rock for orange-hot heat, crushing and smelting would be done as close to the mine as possible. Nag Kath always felt for these people. They had hard lives but kept that to themselves. He could appreciate that. He was even offered a bed that night by a man who looked a lot like Aleg.

At the end of their third day out, Elf and mule came to Grimbold’s Camp. It was the first town, if you could call it that, on this side of the Fords of Isen. Uruks had overrun and burned most of it three years before but entrepreneurs were already building more permanent structures than had been there. Without evil wizards, this was a logical place for servicing trade between Eriador and Rohan. 

It was also a good hub for smugglers since there was no central authority on this side of the river. Prefect Dolthanan might have something to say about that but his first problem was getting out of Orthanc. Like Helm’s Deep, the tower was built for siege defense. It was hard to reach and hard to supply. Originally one of three impressive capitals of the Numeroreans, it was a poor choice for the regional hub of a mercantile empire. Prefect Dolthanan needed to consolidate the realm’s presence from the Isen north to the Dusenorn River. If there was enough of it left after centuries of neglect, war and weather, Tharbad, further north, was a better location.

As Nag Kath was learning, one of the first things men do when they build communities is brew. A mile from Grimbold’s Camp he could smell future ale wafting in the breeze. If there was a meal and a bed to go with it, they would stay the night here. 

The Lord’s Tavern did not quite live up to the name. But they did have excellent fried trout from one of the many streams pouring into the Isen from the tail of the Misty Mountains. The ale was a work-in-progress. His room was almost comfortable. In the morning, Nag Kath learned something about the society of men. Tiny insects were crawling all over him.

Bugs don’t bite or feed on Elves, whose skin they find disagreeable. But now he knew why men were always scratching. Leaving his trousers and tunic on the chair, he carried his pack and boots out of the room and walked across Grimbold’s buck-naked into the trout stream for an old-fashioned Kath bath, scrubbing with soap for fully fifteen minutes until he was sure the little devils were gone. Climbing out of the pool he dressed in his spare clothes while a small group of spectators gave a lusty round of applause for enduring the freezing water so long. Nag Kath smiled and waved as he collected A’mash at the stable.

They would travel due west until he veered right around Dol Baran, the furthest tip of the Mistys. There was not much merchant traffic since the area was only recently repopulating after the dark wizard’s predations. And this was not the time to get goods across the Isen. King Elessar was already considering building a bridge across the span. Had Nag Kath known that, he would have wondered if they would bring one of those huge oliphaunts here.

Two days later, they reached the town of Forthbrond. It was in better shape that Grimbold’s Camp by virtue of falling outside orc patrols, but Dunlendings were not natural shop-keepers either. He had another delicious trout dinner and a better ale but slept in his bedroll where A’mash could graze on new spring weeds.

Dolthanan would not find a lot of people to civilize. Government here was a tribal business. Nag Kath got hard stares from small groups of idle men but none thought him a likely target, at least, not within sight of Forthbrond. Even though he still looked like a greenbottom, he was young, big and probably knew how to wield the sword strapped conspicuously on top of the mule pack. Another defense was that his hair was now long enough to cover his ears if he didn’t push it behind them. That was a trick he would use many times. Defenses they might learn the hard way were that he could see, hear or smell someone approaching long before they got there and could move very fast when they did.

Perhaps his best defense was that beardless boys leading empty mules were poor candidates for villainy.

______________-------______________

Leaving Forthbrond was leisurely. Nag Kath decided he should learn to fish since he would be crossing uncounted streams on his way along the Misty Mountains. Part of the shift towards comfort came from a quick inventory. When they stopped for lunch after the louse infestation, he unpacked A’mash’s load to see what clothes he had left. Nag Kath primarily used his own backpack that was lashed to the mule frame but his longer-term supplies were in a larger bag he hadn’t touched since leaving Isengard except for mule oats.

There were a couple surprises. The first was that the purse Gandalf gave him totaled fifteen Florin ranging up from copper groats, silver tenth’s, nippers to eight full gold Florins. That was a lot of money in Gondor and a fortune in Dunland. Nag Kath knew there was money in the bag but he had been spending down his three silver tenth’s and hadn’t looked until now.

The second surprise was the Elvish hair circlet. Gandalf put it in a padded box and tied a card with his rune around it with heavy yarn. It was pretty. He had no idea why he would use it. He tried it on in Gandalf’s study but it was too small for his head – a woman’s ornament. It was also quite rigid and he didn’t want to break it by bending it to fit. Nag Kath did not know this then but the diadem was worth more than everything in a dozen Forthbronds. It was a good thing those rough fellows giving him the eye didn’t think much of their prospects, not that they could ever sell it.

Since he wouldn’t be pressed for finances or time, Nag Kath approached a lad of about 14 who had already pulled some good-sized trout from a stream on the western edge of town using string on a cane-pole. Without saying anything, he sat down ten paces from the angler and watched. The boy looked at him and nodded, appreciating that the stranger had left his mule downstream and had the good manners to be quiet. A few minutes later, he hooked another fish. It was a small fry so he tossed it back in the water.

That broke the need for silence so Nag Kath said, “You are a good fisherman. I am trying to learn.” The boy looked him over a bit more skeptically. Who didn’t know how to fish and what was this fellow fishing for? The Elf continued; “If you are free, I would like to hire you to tell me how you do this.” Rummaging in his pocket he flipped a five groat coin with his thumb so it spun loudly to the unerring hand.

Now the boy knew who this was; a paying customer. The tall man had just bought his undivided attention.

“I am Nag Kath from Minas Tirith and I travel north. We do not fish in the city but now that I am here, I should know.”

The tall man had a funny accent but his cash was bright. “I am Elmandar Tir-Dional. Pleased to meet you.” Nag Kath stood and they shook hands in the normal way. Elmand was tall for his age and would grow to a handsome man. 

The Elf wondered, “Three names? You must be a lord.”

“I am the lord of trout!” Elmand grinned. “Mother tells we are descended from high persons many years ago but I can’t say I’ve met any.” Looking back to the mule and then to Nag Kath, “Have you fished before?”

“Once, in Rohan. I put the worm on the hook but no fish bit it.”

“Sometimes that’s just because there aren’t any fish there. You see this pool cut in the mud of the bank? They use these to rest from swimming to the mountain. Little ones swim to the Isen. Big ones swim back.” Pulling his hook to his fingers he asked, “Did you use a hook like this?”

“It was bigger.”

“That’s a problem with trout. When the hook’s too big, they can’t get it in their mouth.” Elmand reached into his bag and extracted a medium-sized worm. Running the hook through twice, he flicked it upstream to the full reach of his 15-foot line tied to the end of a cane pole. When it floated even with them, he walked downstream to keep pace until he reached the end of the eddy. It took five tries before a fish hit the line but didn’t set the hook. Most of the worm was left so Elmand kept repeating the motion.

When he stopped getting bites, the lad cut the hook from the end of the fine string and pulled a small hook from his lapel that was wound in colored threads and pieces of what looked like wool. Tying that to his line, he cast out again and watched the hook float slowly with the current in the stream eddy.

“Trout like to eat bugs, but usually not until later in the year. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Other fish don’t care much for these.”

“What kind of bugs?”

“Oh, all kinds. I have different hooks tied to look like whatever’s flying about at the time. Ain’t none now, but maybe our fish doesn’t know that.”

After a few more casts, a larger than average fish decided he would dine on wool and thread. Elmand tugged on the line lightly but didn’t yank him in. He backed up keeping the line taught until the fish reached the bank. Nag Kath lifted it onshore.

“If you leave the line slack sometimes they wiggle off.” The boy gave Nag Kath the pole and patiently advised as he tried his luck. He hooked a modest trout after twenty minutes. The lad looked at the fish and several others with a piece of twine through their gills swimming in the pool. “That one’s yours. Mine should be enough for dinner. I should get to my chores now.”

“Very well, young lord” said with a smile. “Where can I find such hooks and stout line for myself?”

“For another of those fivers, you can have mine.” Sure he was being swindled, but not minding to help a promising young man, Nag Kath said, “Sounds rich! But, all right. If you promise I’ll catch fish!”

“That’s up to the fish.”

The Elf reached in his pocket and slid the lad another copper. Looking back to town he said with gravity, “Let’s keep this to ourselves, eh?”

“You got that right, mister.” Elmand looked to see if anyone was watching as well. “There’s them as would beat you for these fish.” A’mash had wandered to ten paces away and was waiting patiently.

“Safe travels Mr. Kath” 

Nag Kath stowed his new strings and hooks in his bag and wrapped his trout in a wet towel. From Forthbrond, he had the option of cutting more northerly across the lower edge of the mountains but the footing was worse and there was no telling how hard the little streams were flowing. It wouldn’t save much time either since he planned to move up the center of Eregion. Flat ground was better.

It was a pretty day and they made good time – so good that they caught an older couple going the same direction. The farmer was leading a one-eared donkey pulling a small cart holding his wife and a few bags. There wasn’t room for the gent too and the poor donkey was already doing her best.

Nag Kath pulled even with them and said good afternoon. The man introduced himself as Tiller Syles. His wife Moli was in the cart. They were going to visit their daughter and her husband’s farm which they hoped to reach by lunchtime tomorrow. The Elf introduced himself and nodded to the Missus. If she had ever smiled, it was long ago.

Tiller waxed voluble on all manner of subjects and before long it came out that he had just sold his small freehold and they were moving in with the happy couple. Moli now knew this unsavory person would certainly rob them of the farm proceeds. Oh Tiller! Why must you blather so?!

Her worst fears weren’t realized. Nag Kath slowed his pace and continued with them for another few hours until they reached an oft-used campsite fifty paces from the road. He started a fire, took their jenny and his mule for a drink and tied them where they could graze. For dinner he produced his trout hoping Moli might volunteer. He had never cooked one before. There was no such female touch but Tiller had a few suggestions that kept the fish edible. The entire time, Moli glued her eyes to the left wheel of the cart where the little bag holding their money was lashed beneath the frame. Twice she saw Nag Kath following her stare and swiveled her head to imply the cart was no more interesting than the rotting stump next to it. But the wheel always drew her back.

They stayed together the next day as well. A’mash was tied to the back of the cart and happy to move at whatever pace it went. Tiller kept up his friendly stream of banter which gave Nag Kath the chance to work on his language skills. The Syles underestimated the distance to their daughter’s home and it was nearing dinnertime when they arrived at the farm. 

To Moli’s mortification, Tiller asked the Elf if he would like to join them for the high-meal. A venomous stare did not get the offer rescinded. Tiller figured he had earned the right. Some of his cash helped the young couple buy the place and the purse strapped under the cart would purchase adjacent acreage to expand the freehold. He also knew that having an Elf at the table would be the most interesting thing his family could do tonight. Nag Kath knew little of dinner protocol and gratefully accepted before they all turned left towards tended fields.

“My goodness, look at how big you are!” beamed Tiller as he held four-year old Meaglie in the air and turned around. She giggled brightly. Not far behind came her parents. There were hugs and handshakes between the couples. Moli almost smiled. After a decent interval, Tiller said, “Children, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve invited Nag Kath to dinner. He was a big help to us on the way.”

The man of the house came over with a slight limp offering a hearty handshake. “I’m Torrold Blayne. Glad you could join us.”

“I hope it is no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Hope you like stew.”

Meaglith Blayne came over next. She was more affable than her mother but women of the area did not shake hands. Nag Kath offered a bow and she returned a country curtsy. He would learn in his travels that was a rural custom almost anywhere in Middle Earth. City women were more independent. “Come this way, Mr. Kath. Torrold will see to your animal.” Nag Kath unstrapped his pack and carried one of the Syles’ bags into the Blayne’s cozy home.

Meaglie was delighted at the attention but gave the tall blonde man a very sober review. She couldn’t take her eyes off his ears any more than her grandmother could her money. Nag Kath obliged by reaching behind an ear and wiggling it with his finger. She squealed in approval and all was well.

Dinner wasn’t a disaster either. There was very little meat or fat in the stew so Nag Kath didn’t look like he was picking. Fresh loaves were still warm and excellent with butter. Not to be outdone by his wife, Torrold poured mugs of homebrew he laid-down a month before that complimented their meal nicely.

As with the last night’s dinner, the Elf didn’t have to carry the conversation. Tiller and Torrold discussed every possible way to put seeds in the ground. Planting would be late this year because of the snows – maybe two weeks off now. Meaglith got a few words in edgewise between trips to the stove and trying to keep her mother involved. Nag Kath thought the older woman had more to say, but not in front of him.

Spring planting exhausted, eyes turned to the Elf. “Where are you headin’ Mr. Kath?” asked Torrold with a toothy grin.

“Arnor, but I am taking my time.”

“I’d’a thought you’re going to Lorien to visit your people.” Torrold Blayne had only ever seen one Elf and never spoken to one so, as Tiller thought, this was new. He was as sociable as his father-in-law and not intimidated breaking bread with one of Arda’s oldest children.

“I am only part Elf. But I may see some on my way.”

Maeglith asked, “Which part?”

“The poor part,” which brought laughter from everyone capable of it. “Friends told me to visit there to learn more about my family.”

Torrold kept the initiative, “I think you’re best staying to this side of the mountains. There’s talk of queer doin’s in the eastern forests.”

“I heard so. The trees are angry. Better fishing on this side!”

“You got that, my friend!” Tiller added. “What is your road?”

“Isendale to Lich-Bluffs for now.”

“Hmmmm” Torrold wondered. “It might take you out of your way but I’ve hear’d tell of troubles in Gravenwood too. Some of the wild bands have not taken to the peace and venture out of their hiding places in the mountains. Fellow came through two weeks past with naught but his clothes after bandits helped themselves to his horse and purse. Said he was glad to leave in one piece.”

Nag Kath reevaluated, “I am trying to follow King Aragorn’s progress.”

Blayne drawled, “He had a hundred men at arms. Bad ‘uns get out of the way. Man alone, you might see the wrong sort.”

“Can you show on map?” He corrected, "Can you show it on a map?"

Now that was going to be interesting. Nag Kath had accurately copied a half dozen of Saruman’s old maps as an artist, not a cartographer. Rivers and towns were accurate as of three hundred years ago but he couldn’t actually read the names. Torrold, on the other hand, knew the local area like the back of his hand but no further and couldn’t read either. The Elf fetched his leather tube and pulled out the roll of papers. The maps were on the inside. 

Tiller saved the day. He could read a little but didn’t know anything about north of Forthbrond. At least he could identify the right map. The two men between them dragged their fingernails further west through the forest to a place called Trum Dreng. Neither had been there but it was supposed to be a living crossroads town, as big as Galtrev; the regional capital. It was further out of the way but further from hillmen.

In discussing dangers it seems Dunland had two distinct populations on either end of a spectrum with intermarriage and foreigners mixed-in. The hillmen were a rougher breed who some said had a little orc in their blood. They were smaller with close-set eyes and pronounced jaws – a bit like the scratcher with the blade. They had allied with Saruman’s forces and were paying the price for that now.

To the west and here in the south, folk were more like those of Gondor, but shorter with dark hair. The common tongue was similar. These were the farmers and merchants of the province. A fair percentage of this group fought for the dark ones and those differences were still festering in the absence of central authority. If Gondor actually absorbed this land, there would be definite winners and losers.

The route was all the same to Nag Kath so he memorized the turns and rolled the map. Meaglie had never seen paper of any kind and she asked, “What’s that?” pointing at the bigger sheets. Nag Kath unrolled them and picked an unfinished mountain vista drawn from the fourth level at Minas Tirith. 

“This is far away in Gondor.” The child was concentrating. She could see mountains by walking out her door but here they were as if you could pinch them between your fingers and lay them flat. The Elf reached in the tube for a pencil and did a quick sketch of Meaglie with a big smile in the lower right corner. Like at the Falcon’s Lair, the diners all watched closely – even Moli.

When he was done, Nag Kath signed with his initials and said, “Here! This is for you. Remember our dinner.” He handed the sheet to Meaglie who took it almost reverentially. Any other toy would have been carried around the room at top speed but this she just studied.

That ended the festivities. Like farmers everywhere, the Blayne’s retired early. The Syles were shown what would be their new room. Meaglith showed Meaglie how to roll-up her picture and she was tucked in her bed in her parent’s room. The guest room taken, Nag Kath laid his bedroll on the floor and closed his eyes.

And as with farmers everywhere, the family rose before dawn. Meaglith did herself proud with a hearty breakfast. After goodbyes and offers to come back anytime, Nag Kath returned to the road. 

______________-------______________

It was an uneventful four day walk to Rhuvel-Cadlus. Nag Kath thought he was dawdling compared to the pace he and the fast Uruks set crisscrossing Rohan but as men walk, it was brisk. He would stop to rest and water A’mash but never tired.

Rhuvel-Cadlus was bigger than any of the towns he had seen on this side of the Gap, but not by much. What made it different was that it was the first settlement that looked older than a generation. Buildings were usually repaired based on weather, not war. Four days seemed to be about right for a soft bed and grain for the mule. Trout was getting old. Every inn had the same sort of ale. Locals would tell him that theirs was superior to the brews in the immediate area but they tasted the same to him. 

One proud townsman told him that they called their home “Rhuvel” only. It seems the Cadlus clan disgraced themselves some generations back, but not so badly that the council saw fit to replace the inscription on the stone well. Rhuvel was also where the trip became more interesting because it was a short and strategic distance from the district capital of Galtrev – the only city of note in this part of Dunland. Much of this he got from a party of Dwarves. They had a small enclave in Galtrev that saw to their east/west trade. That included a smithy crafting beautiful objects from pig silver mined in the safer areas of Gravenwood to the east.

Knowing the Dwarves’ preference for red, Nag Kath had a pair of pitchers sent to their table which brought profuse thanks and good wishes. Nag Kath told them of meeting their Erebor brethren at Orthanc which was fresh news on this side of the Gap. It seemed these Dwarves, and many like them who had been forced to live as artisans and tradesmen after the sack of Erebor centuries ago, stayed with that life even after their home was reclaimed. They seemed friendlier and less clannish than the stern representatives of the great Dwarf cities. They were also less leery of mannish towns. It helped that they could punish red beer to shame any man alive so the Elf kept that coming. None asked questions only a true Elf would know and Nag Kath’s Westron had gotten good enough that he could hold his own in pub conversation. The Dwarves secretly wondered if an Elf truly drank a Dwarf under the table in Edoras. The Elf wondered if it was true that there were no Dwarf women.

Nag Kath gently sipped his brew which wasn’t noticed by his new comrades. They only fared each other well when the innkeeper started clearing full mugs from the tables well after townsmen and other travelers found their beds.

The Dwarves were on their way back to Galtrev so Elf and mule made their way to the former regional capital of Dunland. Traffic on the road did increase since northern traffic from Galtrev had to go through Rhuvel and then either right to the mountains or left towards Trum Dreng. 


	20. Thieves of Dunland

**_Chapter 20_ **

**_Thieves of Dunland_ **

The next day brought him to the town of Dunland. The namesake of the region did not impress. Still, it was no different than Rhuvel and looked fine for the night. Nag Kath had taken to inspecting rooms for bugs. The room offered was clean so he returned downstairs to pay. Two new drinkers were sitting on either side of the front door. Nag Kath thought little of it and talked with the innkeeper while counting his coppers. Then he heard A’mash heehawing in distress from a distance. As he dashed for the door, the two men closed in.

One barely saw the blow that broke two ribs. The other saw nothing at all.

Outside there was no sign of the mule but he could only be in a small barn on the other side of the paddock. Nag Kath honked through his nose and A’mash brayed again. Quietly and quickly, the Elf loped to the edge of the building. The door was open. He crept into the dark and saw his mule looking rather unconcerned. If there was anyone here, they were very still.

An arrow flew into a stall post four feet from his head. It was either shot by an expert or a greenbottom. The tip barely penetrated the wood so it had not been meant to kill. From the loft a man’s voice warned, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll find another mule.”

Nag Kath returned, “Don’t expect any help from the two in the tavern.”

“Leave now or the next one won’t miss.” A moment later the same voice hissed in panic, “Where’d he go? He was standing right there!”

He was. But now he was sitting on a straw bale behind them holding his sword. The archer was a young girl. Nag Kath figured her for fifteen. She was tall and very pretty. Beside her was a good looking man cut from military cloth but with only one hand.

The Elf couldn’t help but smile. “My, aren’t you a couple of villains!”

The girl dropped the bow and squeaked loud enough to be heard back at the tavern. Her father turned quickly and realized the fish knife in his belt was no match for Rohan steel. If Nag Kath was any judge, that was a Gondor longbow like the ones used to kill his Uruks. The man was probably a worthy fighter before the wound. He was helpless now.

“Listen Mister,” the man said with his last vestige of pride, “She didn’t shoot to kill. You take your mule and go.”

“I will. But you are going to answer some questions first. Who are you working for? Lie to me and I’ll cut your throats before I burn your house.”

“I don’t work for nobody … but Lev Corsann takes a piece of everything that happens here.”

Nag Kath leaned forward, “How about the toughs in the tavern?

“They work for him.”

“What do you say, young lady?”

The young lady said nothing. Her lips were squeezed white. She had a pale face with a few freckles and long, wavy hair that was almost black, tied back in a ponytail. Properly cosseted in a city of the realm she would be a celebrated beauty in a few years. In this miserable place, she was probably already of marriageable age – not that there were many suitable grooms. Most men in these parts would be more interested in temporary arrangements. As the aggrieved party, he could have his way with her and be within his rights. Her father could do nothing to protect her, and he knew it.

Fortunately for her, Nag Kath’s tastes ran to more experienced women. And he remembered Gandalf’s counsel that mercy was a gift beyond price. He growled to the girl, “Come here.”

She looked at her father who nodded tentatively then took an age shuffling the fifteen feet to his straw bale. Nag Kath took a silver tenth out of his pocket and put it in her palm. He had thought of flipping it flamboyantly like he did with his fishing teacher but she would probably drop it in the straw.

“Go back to your da.” That took less time. “Now, you are going to tell me how to avoid this Corsann fellow. And remember, if he gets me, you’ll have to explain why you didn’t share that castar.”

“His men work the road between here and Trac-Plas.”

“Don’t know it.”

The man still felt the noose and stammered, “It is the right turn towards Cartrev.” He cleared his throat, “I swear, Mister. You stay on the road to Trum Dreng, they won’t bother you.”

“Will anybody else?”

“You still have to get through the forest. Can’t help you there.”

The soldier was not a bad man. He was a wounded man. Nag Kath spent three weeks washing wounded men. In doing so he had been forgiven. That would stay with him the rest of his life. He asked, “If I stay in the inn, is this where they will keep the mule?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to take my pack and get an ale.” Looking at the girl, “Bed him down for me.” And to both in his Elf-Lord voice, “Best not to follow me out of the barn too soon.” Raising his eyebrow, they nodded in accord. 

Nag Kath stomped towards the inn holding his sword in one hand and dropping his pack on the porch from the other before flinging the door open. One of the men he hit had vomited on himself and was sitting against a wall, white as a ghost. The other hadn’t twitched. Nag Kath stared at the innkeeper who quailed; sure he was suspected of complicity.

In an orcish tone he asked the room, “Anybody know these two?”

A grizzled fellow at a corner table with a splinted foot propped on a chair called fearlessly, “Never seen ‘em before. But they’re from the Cartrev, and no error!”

Nag Kath froze the innkeeper with another glare and walked over to the man who spoke. Without trying to stand the codger asked, “Buy you a beer? That was fine work just then.”

The Elf looked back to the innkeeper first and curled his finger for him to come over. Drying already dry hands on his apron, the poor man scuttled across the room and waited for something bad. Nag Kath jerked his head slightly towards the assailants and asked softly, “Seen them before?”

The innkeeper nodded violently, “Came in two days ago. Said they’s waiting for someone. Paid cash but didn’t drink much. They don’t say so I don’t ask.”

Keeping his gaze level, the imposing Elf said, “What do we do with them?” As someone who had nothing to fear from anything less than a crowd, he had no need to kill them. But Nag Kath wanted to see how the locals felt – and if they were worried about these boys’ employer.

The innkeeper, who was sweating in a cold room, called to a younger version of himself, “Steph, drag them out in the road and pour water on them.” The men would leave alive. The innkeeper could not improve the situation but he could make it worse so mercy was the course with the fewest comebacks.

Nag Kath softened, “Could you find us a couple ales?”

The man nodded violently and dashed behind the counter. His host adjusted his leg in the chair slightly and said, “Ha, you saved me the price of a red. I don’t think these will come with a bill.”

Nag Kath sat on the side of the man’s good leg and put the sword on the table. The old boy gave it a long look and pronounced, “Fine weapon you got there. No blood. They must have got clear. Hope you got your donkey back. I’m Geras Toombs, by the way.”

Their mugs arrived. The Elf raised his and said, “Nag Kath. Good health!”

The innkeeper had to help his son haul the larger villain out the door. The man moaned so he would eventually leave town on his own power. The room was filling with what must be every citizen of Dunland Town. They brought their own mugs and once filled, tried their best not to be looking at the tough blonde when he looked at them.

It was time for facts. Nag Kath asked his new friend, “You must be from here?”

“Dougsh no! Galtrev. Turned my ankle and my partners left me here to complete our deliveries. They should be back in a week or so with a fat, slow horse to take me home.” After a gulp, “The skinny robber had a tattoo on the side of his neck. They do that in the Cartrev. Let’s folk know to stay away.”

With genuine interest, Nag Kath wondered, “The foothills seem the hard way to go.”

“I’d say so. The militias are breaking up. For a while their leaders could keep them together but them days is past. War’s over. What is your road, Mr. Kath?”

“Dale, I think. But I keep getting further away.”

“That’s probably wise. Maybe Trum Dreng is the safer way to get there.”

“You are the second man who’s told me that.”

“Nice little place. Pretty girls!” He leered after tasting his red.

Getting back to business, Nag Kath asked, “I was hoping to travel with a merchant train but haven’t seen so much as a goat cart in three days.”

“Wrong season. They grow fair barley in these parts ... something to do with the dirt. Brewers and stillers can’t get enough of it. My partners and me handle that trade too. Late summer is when you’ll see the carts. Maybe this year we’ll take it to the river barges if we can keep dougshs like these two from plinkin’ arrows at us.

Nag Kath asked, “Where do I go after Tum Dreg, is it?”

“I’d make for Tharbad. Now that was a real city, sun and sky! Ain’t never been south but there’s them says it was like Osgiliath.”

The Elf remembered drawing the ruins from high up in Minas Tirith. “Not much left of that either.”

Geras shifted his weight again with a groan and fortified with a fresh gulp. He took a closer look at Nag Kath and said, “Wait here, you’re an Elf! I took you for a farm-boy. What are you doing here with us flea-bitten traders?”

“I’m only part Elf.”

“Which part?”

No one had asked him that in so long he did not have a clever retort at hand. “Let’s just say I had a misunderstanding with important people.”

Geras drained his mug. “Haven’t we all, son. Haven’t we all.”

______________-------______________

Geras was right. 

The only wagons he saw for the next week were farm carts preparing for planting. The weather continued to warm but two heavy downpours at night slowed their progress. Even muddy, the roads were in fair condition considering no one kept them repaired. There were places where hard ruts would have brought wagon travel to a stop. Nag Kath thought back to the injured Rohirrim enduring bone-jarring potholes on their way home. At streams he took Kath baths, washed his clothes and caught a few fish when the sun came out.

He also thought about the ‘fast’, as he came to call it. Flanking the robbers in Dunland was the first time he had not been directly threatened. An arrow in the post was violence, but not enough to get his blood up as it had before. Good to know.

Five days after Dunland he reached a crossroads with a rude sign pointing west to White-Hand Camp. He still couldn’t read but Geras, he thought it was, read the name on the map aloud and he remembered it. Nag Kath wanted nothing to do with white hands of any kind and since the only feature of note on the way was the Bone Quarry, he ruled it out altogether.

Three days past the crossroads brought him to the village of Lhan Gogled with its back to the Bonewales Forest. Village was perhaps a generous description but it was a pleasant place. The ground had risen from the plains of Dunland. Better grain lands were to the south but the fertile ground supported herds of goats and sheep. In each flock was a donkey which told Nag Kath there were wolves or wild dogs to mind. He gave the air an extra sniff.

More a guideline than a policy, Nag Kath sought the headman for information. The headman here was also the blacksmith and looked the part in every way. A big, bearded fellow with thick arms, he was wrestling with a wheel rim when Elf and mule came calling. 

They waited patiently because Nag Kath knew from experience that this was a touchy moment. That hoop could spring loose causing pain and a stream of uncharitable language. But no, the man tacked the lap just right and looked up at the visitor who said, “Good day, sir. I seek shelter for both of us. Can you suggest the place to go?”

In a deep voice to match his smithy appearance he replied, “There’s only one place and I own it.” With a flip of his arm, “It’s the big building on the left. My missus will see to you. You can leave your mule here.”

With that he put a handful of nails in his mouth and started tacking the rim around the wheel. Nag Kath took both bags from A’mash but left the frame on. Scratching behind the mule’s ear let him know this was safe before tying him to the paddock rail.

The missus was considerably younger than her husband unless this was an unmentioned daughter. She came out from the kitchen the kind of smile that neither offends nor invites. 

“Your man said I could get a bed and a meal here tonight.”

“Four groats for the room. Two more for supper and to break your fast.” Not one to waste time with banter; the missus. Nag Kath sauntered to a long, high table that must serve as a bar and laid down enough coppers for both. The young woman deftly scooped them up and said, “Room is down the hall, second door to the right. Ain’t got no key but that wouldn’t stop anyone no how. Supper’s an hour before sundown.”

There were no bugs – at least not the little ones that bite. Spiders saw to that. He would take his chance with dinner.

The smith must have found a water barrel because he was clean and wet when he lumbered home for his meal. A half-dozen denizens of Lhan Gogled came for food and a pint. It seems Nag Kath had finally found a place too small to make its own beer but towns not far away brewed enough to sell.

“Sorry to be short with you at the paddock.” said the big man sitting down uninvited. “Rims are ornery.”

“Give you a good scar if you don’t keep them pinched to the round.” Nag Kath had never done that himself but he’d seen several wheels rebuilt on the way to Edoras.

“I’ve got a few.” The smith smiled with a good set of white teeth. He was better looking than had showed at the stable. That may or may not have anything to do with his plain young wife in a land where any virtuous man was scarce. 

Nag Kath decided he had to trust him. People coming from the south were only going into the forest so there was no use hemming and hawing about his course. “I purpose to visit Trum Dreng. What news of the Bonewales?”

“Safer than through Trac Plas ... fewer wildmen. On this side there’s still small bands of bandits. The last several groups coming through saw nothing worse than mosquitos.” He looked his guest over more closely and continued, “Elf like you shouldn’t attract much attention. Your mule won’t be as quiet. I could make you a good price on him.”

“I’ll need him where I’m going.”

“Just asking. You may have company. Three men got here before you with laden horses going the same way.” The smith held his chin just like King Elessar and ventured his next comment cautiously, “I expect you can handle that Rohan cavalry weapon. They might be glad of an extra sword.” The big man paused and looked around the room. “They’ll be here soon enough. Say hello.”

With that he rose and went back to the kitchen. Not sure when an hour before sunset would come, Nag Kath ordered a pint.

As he nursed his ale, the three travelers scraped their boots off on the front step and walked in. They were as the storytellers would have described them; one thin, one middle and one stout with the dark scraggly beards of Dunlendings and all wearing heavier clothes than the season required. They looked him up and down before finding their own table.

Dinner was cooked goat with potatoes and some kind of green Nag Kath hadn’t seen before. It was good. With warm bread there was enough. The smith must have eaten in the kitchen. He walked out and approached the threesome. They talked for a minute and then the thick man stood, clutched his mug and approached the Elf’s table. Nag Kath motioned for him to sit.

“Pieter says you are going to Trum Dreng. Mind if I ask why?”

“Family”

“Long trip on a bad road.”

Nag Kath shrugged. 

The man continued, “He also said you carry a sword. Can you use it?”

This called for an answer, “When I have to.”

“We leave tomorrow, early. Might see you then.”

Nag Kath caught the eyes of the other two and nodded.

That might have settled things but the three men started an animated conversation which included several looks his way. There were plenty of flying hand gestures but they kept their voices too low for even an Elf to hear. Before he had finished his meal, the thick man came over again but remained standing. “It seems we will continue on by ourselves. Safe travels.” 

______________-------______________

Since his company wasn’t needed, Nag Kath went fishing before breakfast. He had his choice of streams and landed three keepers. One he gave the missus to gut the other two and wrap in his big pack. That gave the three men a two hour head start. They made good time. Nag Kath could see the hoof and foot prints. The men traveled like him by walking and having the animals only carry cargo. 

The trail was muddy and still covered by last fall’s leaves but there were signs of commotion shortly after the lunch hour. Prints from different boots and mounts entered and then there was a more-or-less orderly progress that led off the main road. Bandits! Nag Kath and A’mash kept walking but slowly and cautiously. 

After another fifteen minutes, the Elf heard voices. One of them was in pain. He left A’mash untied and crept forward. There was a guard sitting on a rock not paying much attention behind him. Nag Kath was a scout and tracker for the Uruks ambushing the Fellowship, but even a greenbottom would have had no trouble finding the tell-tale wheeze of a former miner. The man sensed something and turned in time for a fist to the jaw.

Moving into a small clearing, two men were lying motionless on the ground. A third was sitting tied to a tree bleeding from his nose or mouth. Two more were searching the packs on the merchants’ horses. A bald, burly fellow was standing by an oak poking one of the stricken men with his boot.

Confident only these three were left, Nag Kath walked into the clearing holding his sword and ordered, “Leave now, while you can!”

The two bandits searching the packs turned quickly but not in panic. The big ruffian straightened and glowered, “Here’s another for the pot.”

He may have had more to say but he slowly looked down like a man who just spilled wine on a new shirt. His head kept dropping until his lips sliced open on the edge of the Rohirric sword pegging him to the oak. The eyes never closed. His two accomplices turned and ran through the nastiest brambles Nag Kath had seen in this forest. The natural barrier for trapping unwary travelers would give them scars they would take to the grave.

The Elf released his grip on the sword and ran over to the two down men. The thin one was already dead. The thick one had a broken lower leg with a bone poking through the skin. He was still breathing. Nag Kath went to the bound man but the ropes were too tight to untie. The fellow mumbled, “Boot knife” and jerked his head towards the impaled leader. That turned out to be a stabbing weapon with no edge so the Elf had to use his little quill knife to saw through the bonds.

As soon as he was free, they scrambled over and knelt beside the injured trader. He opened his eyes and moaned as he tried to regain his focus. His friend said, “Lebel, Lebel! Look at me. We’re free. You stay calm.”

Nag Kath still had his pocket-knife in hand and started cutting the trouser leg around the break. The man next to him winced but did not blanch. This was a bad place for a bad wound. The blonde man’s next motion was too fast to see but in a blur, the broken leg had been stretched from the body and the bone was back in flesh. An instant later, the head on the other end screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Then he fainted away.

His companion walked on his knees for a closer look at the damage. He did not know how it was done but setting that break out here was going to be torture with an uncertain outcome. It was cleanly done. He looked closely into the blonde’s eyes for the first time and then hurried over to one of the horses.

The villains had sliced into one of the bags which leaked a white powder. The merchant cupped his bloody hand against the breach until it filled his palm. Stuffing a kerchief in the gash he returned and knelt where he had been. Eyes back to Nag Kath he said, “Good thing he’s out or he would really yell.” Then he smeared the substance against the ragged wound. Even dead to the world, his associate flinched. 

With a huge sigh of relief, the man turned to Nag Kath and smiled, “Time for proper introductions. I am Tyron Durgan. This unworthy creature is my cousin, Lebel Durgan. We are greatly in your debt.” 

“I am Nag Kath.”

They turned their attention to the other man. He must have been killed early on because he was already cooling. Tyron looked back to their road and said, What about their sentry?”

“Sleeping comfortably.”

Purpose rose in the man’s face. Grabbing the boot knife he said, “We’ll see about that.”

Nag Kath firmly but gently took his wrist and said gravely, “We should get your cousin on a horse and gone.” Looking at the torn briar branches, “They might be back with friends.”

Tyron was stock still for several seconds and then hurried to his dead associate. Rummaging through his vest he found a small purse and dropped it in a pant pocket. Then he flung the man’s sword as far as he could into the brush. “Let’s go, Mr. Kath.”

Two of the four bandit horses ran back to the main trail. The other two shied but were tied to brush and gentled after the initial violence. The merchant horses looked bored. Nag Kath turned towards the trail and whistled loudly. Tyron was already gathering several strong branches to make a splint. He piled those next to his cousin who had woken again and seemed alert. Then he went to a different horse and took a shirt out of the saddlebags to splint the leg. He had done this before.

Nag Kath had the unpleasant task of retrieving his sword. It was deep in the stout tree and he had to mangle the ruffian to free it. It was no time for jest but he couldn’t help but think of the miner’s foot. The story was that the knife could not be freed straight up from the ground. They had to unwrap the handle and pull the man’s foot past the tang.

About this time, A’mash sauntered into the clearing in time to watch his master and another man lifting a third onto a nervous horse. To his dismay, they then loaded him with several heavy leather bags. Tyron looked at Nag Kath and said, “You take the bandit’s gelding and I’ll ride mine.”

Oh my goodness! It was finally time! 

The world had seen this extraordinary creature perform heroic feats beyond imagining without displaying the slightest fear. For the first time in this life, he tensed. He had to climb on a horse. Tyron thought him lost in thought. After a decent interval he nudged, “We should be on our way, Mr. Kath.”

Nag Kath put his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the animal’s back as he had seen Rohirrim do thousands of times. The horse did nothing. After carrying the big bandit around, the light Elf must seem like a child. Lebel was conscious enough to sit upright but his cousin took the reins. Tyron sounded, “Chik chik” and they walked out of the clearing onto the Great West Road.

According to Tyron, if they could keep this pace, they would make the northern edge of the forest by dark. Nag Kath or Tyron, sometimes both, would ride next to Lebel when there was room in case he fell over. The man stayed alert but said nothing.

Darkness was closing and they had not cleared the trees. Then the forest opened onto rolling horse lands. Lebel was wearing down and wincing. Tyron reassured him. “Nuther half mile, cousin.”

Nag Kath’s horse seemed to have no problem with him. After a while, the Elf felt confident enough to ride off to their right following what he thought might be the prints of the two bandit horses. They would be going home. He wanted to know if anyone was coming back. Returning to the cousins, they rode for ten minutes on the road and another ten off to the left where Tyron knew of a rock overhang for shelter. 

Dismounting Lebel was delicate work. They had to hoist him down on the wrong side of the horse because he couldn’t put any pressure on the left stirrup. When the horse shifted, he cried out but did not lose consciousness. The fitter men held him while he relieved himself and carried him to flat ground. He sat up for a minute and looked at the Elf. Words came slowly. Almost smiling he said, “Suppose we should have had you come after all.” Then he fell back into deep sleep. 


	21. Vandery

**_Chapter 21_ **

**_Vandery_ **

Lebel slept for a few hours but woke-up sweating. Nag Kath had perched himself on the rock shelf overhanging the men’s sleeping area to watch the approaches. Tyron called him down. The Elf hopped to the bedrolls and felt Lebel’s forehead. He thought for a moment and said, “Let me try something.”

Nag Kath and Tyron shifted Lebel so Nag Kath could kneel behind his head. Then he placed his hands on either side of Lebel’s face and closed his eyes. Nothing happened for a minute. Then, slowly, his hands shone a silver, iridescent glow for another minute and faded. Nag Kath rocked back on his bottom and sweated himself. Elves don’t sweat, not that he knew that then. By moonlight and Eärendil’s star that wasn’t visible, but his breathing was short as well.

Tyron wiped the sweat off Lebel’s forehead with one hand and felt with his other. Lebel seemed cooler. Tyron looked at the Nag Kath’s moonlit profile and said “That’s another thing you can tell me about.”

Both men tried to sleep and Nag Kath climbed back on the rock.

At first light, Tyron yawned, stretched and leaned over Lebel. He was resting peacefully now. Then Tyron rolled on his back and looked up at Nag Kath silently peering down from the overhang. Saying nothing, the salt trader rose with another stretch and walked towards the horses and mule. They had left them all saddled and packed through the night against a quick departure. Reaching into his duffel-bag he extracted a small cloth bundle and came back to the overhang. Lebel groaned and shifted but did not wake.

In the bundle were way-bread cakes. Nag Kath had his own in the pack but they had gotten harder by the day and weren’t appetizing. He took the piece Tyron offered as a courtesy. It was a significant improvement on his. “Good!” he mumbled through a mouthful. 

Tyron said, “It is an Elvish recipe. Mostly the same ingredients but we don’t know how they make ‘em.”

“Mine are better for skipping on ponds.”

“Then I know something you don’t. Let’s see if we can get Lebel on his horse.”

Tyron woke his cousin none too gently. Nag Kath walked to the horses and untied Lebel’s mare. By the time he reached the sleeping area, Lebel was already on his good foot. The color in his face seemed normal above the beard. As they wrestled him up, Tyron said, “You should eat less of Kalie’s cooking!” Both men laughed but Lebel’s changed to a wince when his bottom hit the saddle. This time, Tyron handed him the reins. He could guide himself but no pack animals would be tied to his saddle. Another few minutes to arrange the beasts in order and they made towards Trum Dreng.

Tyron said expansively, “Mr. Kath, we are in your debt several times now. But I still want to know how you pegged that ruffian to the tree and nobody saw it.”

“Many people would like to know, including me. At times of unease I can move very fast for a few moments. It is like everyone else stands still. Gandalf says I may be part wizard but even he is not sure.”

That was more of an answer than Tyron was expecting. Lebel hadn’t missed a word either. He ventured, “Gandalf the Gray?”

“He is white now, but yes, same fellow. I was with him all winter. We left Isengard a month ago.”

Lebel did not see the glowing hands but Tyron had and pressed his curiosity, “And bringing down that fever, did you learn that in wizard school?”

Nag Kath cracked one of his mannish grins. "If there are schools for wizards I am a poor student. I am mostly self-taught. That is probably Elvish but I am only part Elf.” Neither man asked about the other parts. 

The conversation turned to the salt in their bags, mostly because Lebel needed to take his mind off his throbbing leg. “People take salt for granted but it’s hard to get far from the sea. Maybe that will change now that the orcs are gone, but as long as there’s thems like those rebels lobbing arrows at the river barges; men like us will carry it out of the hills.

“Trum Dreng will probably buy all we have. The last shipment didn’t make it – at least, not sold by anyone who came by it honestly. I think them brigands just dumped it rather than peddle it to folks who could recognize them. Thems with fresh supplies might be asked where they got it.”

Tyron added, “We handle other things too. The wildmen are too close to the south mine. The Meados family mines the north and is known for fair dealing.”

Nag Kath asked, “And you put some on the wound. Does it heal?”

Both men answered, “Oh yes.” Then Lebel finished, “It helps stop the infection. Honey will also but that’s harder to get. I heared some folk be raising bees in boxes near the apple orchards. It might work. You have to get the female and the rest follow her.”

Tyron chuckled, “Everyone follows the females!” More quietly, “We live a little southwest of Trum Dreng – section called Vandery. With the early start we’ll be there mid-afternoon.”

Lebel said pointedly, “Less, of course, we make time for cakes and water!” He had had neither since being hoisted on his horse. It was good that he had an appetite.

Tyron slapped his forehead in mock anguish, “Dougsh! I forgot the cask of red ale!” All laughed at that. Lebel ate his cakes, was hoisted back in the saddle and lapsed into concentrated silence. Nag Kath rode closer to his right side in the event he lost consciousness. Tyron watched from the left. Five or so hours later, Tyron announced, “We’re here.”

_____________------____________

A path on the left ran to several dozen brick or stone houses arrayed in a circle. Villagers crowded out of their homes to watch. The blonde man must be the guard. The three riders and pack-beasts walked slowly as locals gathered to watch. All were smiling and glad to see their men returning. As they got closer, townsmen saw Lebel’s leg was straight and not in the stirrup. The first building they reached was a storehouse and paddock. Tyron and Nag Kath dismounted and led their mounts to tie-posts. Lebel wavered in his saddle. 

A woman with two small children trailing close behind walked down the lane said roughly, but clearly in jest, “Late again, Lebel! What mischief have you boys been in now?” She was on the right side of the road and couldn’t see her husband’s leg.

The good natured Tyron would usually give as good as he got, but he wanted to set a more serious tone without alarm, “Bandits in the Bonewales, Kalie. We lost one man. They lost two. We need to get yours home.” 

Kalie was cut from the same cloth as Annas. She walked around to the left side of the horse, saw the splint and said to the gathered townsmen, “Up we go. Boran, bring the cot into the main room, would you? Ander, Bethanis, go put the kettle on and pick some Kingsfoil.”

Lebel reclaimed some of his bonhomie and said to the assembled folk, “This is Nag Kath. He saved the day and was more use than others I can name!” Tyron smiled. In their little world, that was the highest possible compliment. 

An elegant woman with a shawl around her shoulders had just reached the group and embraced Tyron. It earned her a full kiss which warmed the hearts of older neighbors and made the children cringe. Tryon told her, “Lebel’s hurt. Let me see to him.” She nodded and joined two other women a few feet away.

There was no need. Lebel had plenty of help. They led his horse another hundred feet and he was carried into a pleasant home with the capable Kalie directing. Other people were already at work. The two bandit horses were unsaddled and placed in the paddock. The laden animals were led to the side of the building and unloaded. Then they joined the others. This was a business community. The salt in those sacks would be weighed and sorted into tightly woven bags for sale by morning. Two large dogs sat patiently near the door.

Tyron put his arm around his woman’s waist and said, “Emalie, this is Nag Kath. He gets a special place at the table tonight.” They walked another hundred feet past Lebel’s house to a larger stone home. It had a small garden inside the front gate. Looking about, most of the homes had gardens that included vegetables and flowers. The Elf felt warm here. His host told him to just drop his pack by the door and make himself at home.

Emalie was not from here. Nag Kath wondered if she might have some of the tall, northern Dúnedain strain in her blood. Folk from elsewhere were common in a community of traveling merchants. Wives were where you found them. No doubt a few children along their road looked like salesmen too. Emalie was accepted here with open arms, unlike more clannish enclaves with no outside experience.

She had a pot on the side burner and moved it over the fire for tea before rejoining the two men sitting close together in the main room. Tyron explained Lebel’s leg had been broken in an ambush. Nag Kath happened along and sent the villains packing. He looked at the Elf and back to his wife saying, “Nag Kath is a healer. He pulled the fever out last night. I think Lebel will be fine if Kalie can keep him from chasing those kids about.”

She smiled gently and thanked Nag Kath for his pains. The Elf was a little surprised that no one had mentioned the dead man when Tyron said, “Em, fraid we lost the guard. Name of Temandath, from around Galtrev. First time we’d used him. He defended bravely but they overcame us. I should see to that now.”

He pulled his chair to a small writing desk and opened the purse he had taken from the guard. There were coins, some personal items and what he was looking for; a thin wooden roll, sealed in wax. Cutting the wax back with a pen knife like Nag Kath’s, Tyron extracted a small piece of paper containing the man’s name, where he lived and who should be contacted in the event of exactly this. Men who couldn’t write would have this done for them. Tyron wrote it down in his own hand with a quill pen on a scrap of his own paper and put the wooden tube back in the purse along with a silver tenth pulled from his drawer. The next time one of his company went that direction, the man’s possessions would be returned with condolences. Not everyone was this honest, but folks here valued their reputations.

After the flush of his arrival, Tyron talked more quietly with Emalie. Nag Kath wrinkled his nose and started rifling his pack. The fish were much the worse after two days on the road and being crushed by bags of salt. He carried the towel outside and tossed it over the fence. Cats would enjoy it. After rinsing his hands in a watering bucket outside the door he walked back in saying, “Don’t think we will want those tonight.”

Emalie said, “I’ll think of something,” with a smile her man drowned in. Dinner was good although there was no ale. It wasn’t that these folk did not partake, as he knew from Lhan Gogled. 

Tyron explained, “There is a festival in Trum Dreng in a few days and all of the local supply has been bought at whatever price. Happens every year." After dinner, Nag Kath excused himself for a walk. It was good to stretch. He had never ridden before. A greenbottom man would have walked bowlegged for days and even his Elf frame had new pulls and sores. They would heal by morning. Along the short path he met two couples out for their evening stroll. Spring was in full bloom and folk enjoyed not being trapped in four walls. 

Returning to the Durgan home he heard the couple enjoying a private moment after Tyron’s long absence. He chuckled quietly knowing folk would be shocked if they knew how much Elves can hear. In what became a long wait, Nag Kath sat on a knoll across the street and wondered about Kataleese. He briefly thought about the slim archer but put that out of his mind. It had been a while. When the moans and bumps inside were over, he slipped in the front door and sat in one of the comfortable chairs to catch a few winks. 

_____________------____________

Morning life arrived later in Vandery than in pure farming villages. Merchants travel by day but they usually make their deals after men who work the soil are a’bed. Emalie walked out in a thick robe looking very relaxed. Nag Kath kept his smile to himself. She started a fire in the stove and set the kettle on. Tyron walked out in his woolens and socks a few minutes later to survey the place.

The couple had no children after five years of marriage. If it bothered them they certainly hadn’t stopped trying. Nag Kath wondered if longed-lived strains like northern men were less fertile than more common folk. Elves could be married for thousands of years with only a few babes so maybe that was nature’s rate of replacement.

Ander, Lebel’s young son, knocked on the door as Emalie was scrambling eggs. He let himself in. “Mornin’ Em. Da wants to know if Uncle Ty and Kath can stop by.”

They intended to and told the youngster they would be along directly. “How’s your da” asked Tyron. 

The lad was taking things well. “He’s in a foul mood now that the shock is gone. Ma says the wound is knitting and not red or fouling, but I didn’t see.” Looking at the Elf, “Heared you spitted that rebel right proper.” With that he nodded and added, “See you then.”

After breakfast, Nag Kath took his pack and made the short trip with Tyron to Lebel’s. The door was open. Kalie was by the stove and brought them hot tea.

“Good, you’re here!” roared Lebel who was in a large chair with his leg stretched on a sitting stool. He shifted slightly and howled, “By the bearded balls of Durin!” His small daughter smiled at her da’s silly outburst. Looking back to his guests, Lebel lowered his voice slightly, “I apologize for the tea.” Realizing he had insulted his wife’s hospitality he added, “Not that Kalie’s tea isn’t the best in Vandery, but I can’t offer you a drop of drink! Whose idea was that?”

Ty said calmly, “It’s all been bought for the Progress. I brought you a little something” and pulled a small, flat tin bottle from his jacket.

“Ah, I knew there was a reason you’re a relative. Your da was the smart one.” Lebel pulled the cork and took a swig. Then he rolled his head against the padded chair back.

Looking back at Nag Kath, who was smiling and staying above the fray, he added softly, “I owe you more than I can ever repay, Mr. Kath. You are going on to Trum Dreng?” Without waiting for an answer, “Nice place. Our little valley took less damage from the war than most and we’ve been quicker to heal.” That effort called for second sip. “They’re having a big do soon. We avoid that like the croup, but you may enjoy yourself.” His eyes glazed-over, “I’m going to sleep for a while. My worthless cousin will see to your horse and mule.” His head leaned back again followed by a gentle snore.

My horse?! 

Ty and Nag Kath stopped at the paddock. The cousin walked to the tack room and brought the saddle and bridle. He would have replaced the tattered blanket but there wasn’t a spare. Without a word, he expertly prepared the horse while the Elf loaded A’mash. The next time ‘his’ horse was saddled, he would have to do it.

Back in the sun, Tyron said, “Lebel is right. We can never repay you. May the Evenstar shine on you wherever you go. Come back and visit us someday. They gripped each other’s forearms in the salute of the region. 

Looking at the beast, Nag Kath asked, “What is his name?” 

Ty considered that with his chin in his hand. “That’s up to you. We have been fortunate in Vandery. Vandery seems fair.”

Nag Kath wished him good fortune and led his two animals out to the Great Road. 


	22. Trum Dreng

**_Chapter 22_ **

**_Trum Dreng_ **

When they were out of sight of the village, Nag Kath dismounted and stood eye-to-eye with his new steed. “Listen, horse. Your name is Vandery.” The changeling grimaced in mind of his mount’s gelding, “I am sorry for wrongs done you when you were young. I will treat you better than your last owner. A’mash will support my claim,” he nodded to the mule. “And in return you will not kick me, bite me or bear false witness. Do we understand one another?” Vandery leaned forward slightly to sniff Nag Kath’s face. The Elf took that as assent. If reason failed, wargish persuasion would not.

Despite his feeble protests, horse-travel made sense. One of his boots had a hole in the sole. Longer-term, he had seen as many abandoned farms as he ever needed to. More months of the same had lost their appeal. And if the north was little different, he wanted options before the snows fell.

He climbed back up and the trio made their way towards Trum Dreng. By most accounts, the town was much larger than any he had seen in Dunland so far, hopefully large enough for a cobbler and tailor. This was another crossroads. His route kept going to the historic ruin of Tharbad. The crossroad south went to the Northpass. To the right were the Cartrev cities he had just avoided. Either northern rout would take him to the forbidding Mournshaws above the River Dusenorn.

In sight of town he met a mounted party from the Northpass road. Four men and two women were on horses equipped and caparisoned as cavalry. With them was a gaily painted one-horse wagon driven by a salty old fellow with a straw hat. A fair day, the panels were rolled up and five children waved and squealed which did not bother their elderly minder.

“Hail and welcome! Are you going to the Progress?” That was called by a stately man of about thirty who reined over while his company continued on.

The blonde youth admitted, “I know little of it. It seems from your excitement that good times are in store.”

“Oh indeed they are.” The man pulled close and noticed the Rohirric sword on the mule’s back, of no moment, and oddly out of reach. The horse was another matter. That was a rebel mount and kit or he was a fool. Something was amiss and it was his business to inquire.

“I am Tenneth Marchand, Captain of the Northpass. We are going to the Progress.”

“I am Nag Kath, bound for Arnor.”

“That is a fine horse. I could make you a good price on him.”

With a chuckle, “Ah, I just came by him two days past. He would think me disloyal.”

Marchand said evenly, “I hope the former owner did not take advantage then.”

Nag Kath knew he was being appraised. Vandery was better than walking, but no match for Marchand’s handsome charger. His strong card was that this man was certainly a blood enemy of the bandit he killed. The Captain would get his answers so the changeling chose sides, “I had to run a sword through his chest to secure the bargain.”

Marchand did not expect that. The former Uruk often forgot he was a baby-faced teenager to hard men of the windward. Everyone knew what Elves looked like because they all looked the same. Same clothes, face and, especially, hair. To change the dynamic, he leaned forward to whisper in the horse’s ear. “You see, boy. You are in high demand!” The motion made his locks fall away from his pointed ear.

The Captain realized this creature could be thousands of years old. That might explain the unplaceable accent too, if not his tailor.

“Then you are indeed welcome. Join us for the short ride into Trum Dreng.” Nosing their horses to follow the wagon, “We are come for Naedrath’s Progress. It is a yearly festival commemorating a famous return from battle.”

“I know not of Naedrath. A leading light by the honor done him.”

“I’m told quite a villain, but he did save the city from troops of hillmen some generations back. And you, Mr. Kath?

The Elf replied, “I am up from Gondor, but more recently Isengard. Reliable friends said my people came from far north. I travel to Arnor in hopes of seeing them ere they sail west.”

Well, Marchand thought; this is getting interesting. “Isengard … was the wizard in residence?”

“That depends on which wizard. Saruman is dead. Mithrandir was to journey south a few days after I made for the Gap so he is well into Rohan by now. His work was done when he passed the keys to Gondor.”

“Gondor and Arnor? Arnor has been its own land for an age. People here look to themselves.”

They continued on for another fifteen minutes chatting idly. Nag Kath wondered, “I see others arriving. Where might I find a room and stalls for my mounts on such an honored day?”

Marchand had never heard of an Elf staying at an inn. “A single man might still find lodgings. The high-street is Thomald. There or where the square turns left to Quigley. How high you climb depends on your purse. Ah, we are here! My company goes left. Good luck, Mr. Kath. I hope we meet again.”

“Thank you Captain.” 

________________------_______________

Trum Dreng was a nice place and larger than he was expecting by several times. The high street was nearly as wide as Edoras' and could accommodate wagons in both directions. Buildings were mostly two-storied with shops on the ground floor. Nag Kath noticed one store with a large carved boot hanging from the porch roof. The town was busy with the old warlord’s remembrance. He reminded himself they had cornered the market on ale in the district. With any luck, it might be like the Feast of Tellerian in Minas Tirith. Ah, Kataleese … he wondered again what she might be doing just now. Flowers were everywhere. Children were stringing them on the fences and window frames along the procession route.

The trio wandered up the crowded street passing a few inns that were the worse for wear. Following the captain’s advice, they reached a large public square and turned left up Quigley Street. The uphill side of Thomald looked prosperous too. Another block brought them to the Fair Maid Inn. Nag Kath recognized the Tengwar letters for 'inn' by now. Tying his beasts to a post he walked to the front desk. 

The Maid was a three-story building with a fresh coat of paint. The interior was large enough that the inn counter was separate from the bar and restaurant. A tall, lank man of indeterminate age greeted him smoothly. “Good day sir. How may I assist?”

“A room for the night and stabling for two animals.” He said animals because mules were not always preferred guests.

“Oh this is fortunate. As it happens, Mr. Levanthar had to cancel his annual reservation, such a nice man, such a good family. It is on the third floor, well away from the commotion down here.”

Nag Kath had learned that was how innkeepers said it was a low attic up many stairs. After Orthanc, two flights were nothing. He was about to ask the price when the concierge continued, “That will be a silver tenth per night and ten groats for your horses.” Leaning forward with what he thought would be an irresistible bonus, “Cook is preparing her celebrated stew tonight.”

With that last news Nag Kath was on the edge of shouting, 'What highway robbery is this?!' But then he remembered he would be paying with Saruman’s stolen gold, of which he had plenty, and he really didn’t care much about money. Constant contact with people who thought of little else was coloring his reactions.

The clerk oiled, “May I remind the gentleman that the festivities will last the weekend. Perhaps there are other matters you can attend while you are here? Three silvers for three nights would include care for your horses.”

“Yes you are right. I need a few things.” Nag Kath counted out four silver tenths which would also cover meals and drink.

“Right you are sir. It is number 304 at the top. I’ll have a boy bring your bags and see to your horses.” At the second floor, Nag Kath could not help but grin when he heard heehawing from the street.

Impressive! Old Mr. Levanthar knew his onions after all. The Maid was the nicest place in town. His room was spacious with headroom enough and had a small balcony that overlooked the street. Nag Kath leaned back in his bed and took a mental accounting of chores he might accomplish here. Boots and clothes for sure, plus sundries for the road. His reverie was snapped by three crisp knocks on his door. The concierge’s “boy” was a strapping man his own size hoisting both bags with one arm. The door swung open and the fellow came in, placing the mule bag by a wash table and putting the backpack against the bed. Nag Kath gave him a five-groat copper.

Usually servants would nod gratefully and leave but the man said, “That’s a fine mule you got, mister.”

“He must like you. He is not always so friendly.”

“I just scratches 'em behind the ears and they’s alright.”

Since he was here, “I hear tell there’s a festival tomorrow.”

The man grinned, “Oh yes, sir. The Progress. High persons construe a blessing at the start and come back up the hill following the Lord’s return to Trum Dreng.”

“It seems people are already making merry.”

“Oh indeed, sir.” Thinking Nag Kath a young spark, truer than he knew, he leaned forward confidentially, “The evenings are when unmarried folk make their acquaintance. After the reading tomorrow, the invitees will go to the Mayor’s home to celebrate. The rest of us disport ourselves along the route, in keeping with our station, of course.” Like most places, elevation meant status.

“Thank you. Oh, my animals?”

“Stable’s behind the inn and down two buildings. Amandrol will see to them.”

_____________-------_____________

“I’m just telling you what he said. It might be nothing, but we agreed to keep an eye on such matters.” Captain Marchand was neither concerned nor complacent.

Mayor Delve Cathad sat at his desk and looked at the Captain and three other town notables. “An Elf, you’re sure of that? Dressed like a tinker, rode a rebel horse into town and claimed he killed its rider? What’s more, he said he was from Gondor but spent time with Mithrandir in Isengard?”

Marchand nodded, “That’s what he said.”

A man sitting by the window asked, “Did he have the look of a soldier or magister?”

“Nay, Vellend. I would have said he was a farm-lad come for the ale until I saw that pointed ear. He had a Rohan dress sword that has seen use strapped to his mule. He was affable and only seemed concerned about finding a room for the night.”

Mayor Cathad had things to do. It was his year to lead the Progress. But these were the leading lights of their region here on important business. Marchand was a good cavalry man and had kept the area clear of orcs and raiders as his fathers had before him. The other gentlemen seated around the room had significant commercial, property or farming interests. No man held sway. They worked together.

The core concern was that the Reunited Kingdom would be late arriving from both ends. Rohan was friendly. They, the Elves to the north and loyal companies like Captain Marchand’s had largely pacified the area so there was no pressure on the central government to interfere. But the political landscape was changing. These rivers were becoming safer for trade. Who knew if southern lords in high favor had been promised fertile land below the Glanduin for their fealty? And now, here was this Elf, come from Gondor by way of the fell black tower, with no plausible destination on a dead rebel’s horse! It was too much to be borne. 

Vellend said, “I agree. We should make sure the fellow has a good time and is on his way. I can’t imagine an Elf doing any more than minding Elvish business. What he’s doing here I couldn’t guess. There’s talk they’re leaving, but they won’t cede an inch of their ground before they’ve all sailed away.”

Danthan also agreed, "When do Elves care for us? I am more concerned with the Maedos clan. They have chased the Lendings into the hills and want a seat at the table. They have a point." 

Vellend nodded, “Danthan is right. Let us keep the Maedos in mind. They are wary, but this progress might help them see the advantages of civilization. Delve, what of the Elf?”

“Leave him to me.”

_____________------____________

Nag Kath slept until he heard the dinner bell. That was unusual except curing Lebel would take a while to restore. The restaurant was almost full with folk in their finest. He was already seated when he remembered; Stew! 

A comely maid came to his table and greeted him with, “Dinner will start with our own fish stew followed by beef, potatoes and lennas greens. Can I start you with something to drink?”

“Perhaps you can recommend an ale.”

“I will see to it sir.”

Well, fish stew was better than any other stew. The lennas greens were good too, not a southern crop. He gave dinner high marks and went back to his room. It was time to take stock. First, he emptied his purse on the bed. He had long since stopped using oats to muffle coin rattles. They molded here in the wild. Less than a nipper was spent. There was not much to buy in Dunland. Even bribes were cheap. If he counted right, silver tenth’s were forty to a full Florin in trade.

Then he opened his leather tube to inventory his art supplies. Other than fetching maps, he had not used it since drawing little Meaglie. On his way out of Orthanc Nag Kath commandeered one of Annas’ cubbyhole dividers to use as a backing board for small sketches. He put that under his arm, collected paper, pencils and a charcoal and walked downstairs onto Quigley Street.

What came next was what Gandalf called ‘a learning experience’. Here in the north, ale and wine (when you could find it) were beginner’s drinks. The same barley for ale could be boiled and distilled for much greater potency. The first tavern he visited catered to such tastes.

Sitting at the end of a busy long-table he looked not very high up at a short, sullen wench. She wasn’t long past attractive, what Lentaraes called; ‘Rode hard and put-up wet.’ The woman said nothing. Evidently he should know what he wanted. “What do you recommend?”

The gal answered, “We serve a light brown malt some prefer.”

“One of those.”

She left without a word. While he waited, he spotted two elderly gentlemen flattering themselves they could amuse their own serving woman who was young enough to be a daughter. The tall man had the perfect face for a charcoal sketch. Nag Kath’s drink was a long time coming and he made good progress on the drawing until the view was blocked by his humorless barmaid holding a tray with a small cup. She placed it on the table and waited.

It was the color of tea with a strong aroma. Nag Kath laid down a five-groat and took an ale-sized gulp. To his credit, he didn’t wheeze like a greenbottom. He managed to rasp, “And an ale to follow.”

“That’s another two groats then, isn’t it?” He produced them and she turned on her heels.

Elves pass alcohol through their systems quickly but they still feel the flush. When he caught his breath, he finished the charcoal study and waited for the beer to wash away the brown spirit taste. 

A man wearing the traditional kerchief of a Progress invitee approached his end of the table and said, “That’s a good likeness of my father. We have been trying to have him sit for a formal portrait for an age. Too vain, I fear. Would you consider selling this?”

Just then, his waitress sloshed his mug in a puddle as she flew past. Nag Kath ignored the gent for a moment and gently brought his ale to his lips so it wouldn’t drip in his lap. Placing it on a dry spot he apologized, “It is not one of my better works. Please take it with my best wishes on this auspicious day.”

The man rolled it properly instead of folding it and said, “Thank you so much. Enjoy the Progress tomorrow.”

The ale seemed bitter in his mouth. It was time for air. Nag Kath strolled across the street to what looked like a rooming house and flopped in an empty chair on the porch. The timing was flawless. An ancient cart and horse, driven by a more ancient man, was crawling up Thomald. The old boy was replacing spent lamps along the procession route. Torches to either side of his seat showed his features perfectly. At the rate he was climbing, Nag Kath had all the time he needed. It was one of the best works he had ever done – something a patron would pay for.

The local brown spirit must have affected him more than he thought because he hadn’t heard a man come to within ten feet of him. “That’s old Lieff. Been here since I was a boy.”

Nag Kath was glad he didn’t squeak like the girl plinking arrows at him. The Elf turned and said, “He must have earned that face.” He showed the picture to the fellow and remembered a man’s eyes could not see it in this light so he motioned his reviewer closer to the fresh lamp.

“That is him as he lives and breathes. I’m afraid he will not buy it, though. He is nearly blind.”

“I do these for joy.” Nag Kath handed him the sketch. The man admired it gratefully. He was stocky, powerful and well dressed, somehow managing to keep his black boots clean on the dusty street. He also wore a blue kerchief. Nag Kath guessed a local invitee, unless farmers here were more fashionable than Forthbrond.

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy the celebration.” He was gone in the night.

Nag Kath collected his things and started strolling towards the Fair Maid but kept going to clear his head. It wasn’t long before there were no lamps. This was the district of success and they liked their privacy. Walking up the hill, houses got larger. Fences got larger. The dogs behind those fences got larger. When they stopped barking for a moment, Nag Kath heard something; something like a well-polished pair of boots.

He had been overestimated. How flattering!

The changeling carelessly turned and slowly bumbled his way down Quigley, leaning on walls or posts every so often to check his balance. Reaching the Fair Maid, he stubbed his toe on the last step and flew by a couple leaving after dinner. When the door shut he vanished out the kitchen. Running back up the hill in the alley, he emerged in darkness two buildings away. 

There was his new friend admiring the sketch as he walked back up the hill. The man had no need of silence now. Nag Kath followed him to a home a block off Quigley with a pleasant garden in front. One bed was in full bloom. The Elf stole a blossom for his buttonhole.

_____________------____________

Well, his head was clear now. It was time to discover his secret admirer. 

Nag Kath strolled down Quigley and turned left onto the remainder of Thomald that eventually led to the north gate of town. He could not read the sign but one little restaurant had a flower much like the one in his jacket on the well-painted sign above the door. The place was busy. The lady seating guests thought he might be under-dressed for the Primrose but took him to the only empty table. He ordered tea and watched. 

A few minutes later, the hostess approached him and asked, “I’m sorry sir, would you mind sharing your table with the Morthlands? They are a very respectable couple.”

“Not at all. I hope they don’t think my drinking tea dispiriting on this festive evening.”

“I think that will be just fine sir.”

She was back shortly with a man and woman in their forties who looked slightly askance at the disheveled blonde stranger. The Primrose catered to a local clientele. The man was dapper with a fine mustache. She had not missed many meals. The wisdom of Lentaraes surfaced again. He could not ask them anything. He would make them ask him.

Nag Kath took the flower out of his buttonhole and placed it on the table, fussing over positioning until it was just right. Pulling his pad and paper out, he drew a flawless sketch of the blossom. Not happy, he groaned and turned the paper over, scribbling furiously at another attempt.

It worked like a charm. The couple stopped their conversation and drank-in every line. After drawing another perfect image, he tossed his pencil on the sheet and looked up. “I declare; my feeble talents are no match for this beautiful flower. I don’t even know what it is. We do not have these in Minas Tirith!”

The woman wondered if she should say anything to this threadbare vagabond but after a nod from her husband she informed, “That is an Elf Slipper blossom. 

Her man quickly added, “They are very difficult to grow. That is the first flower of the season to be judged by the committee.” 

Nag Kath guessed they were on the committee. “I hope a name will give inspiration to my next effort. Are they common in these parts?”

The husband again; “No. Only a few gardeners have the patience to grow them from seed. Do you mind my asking where you got yours?”

“A gathering up the street.” Nag Kath made the exaggerated motion of a man in his cups trying not to seem so and pointed towards Quigley. “A fine fellow was celebrating with friends. Very well turned-out, he was. I needed air and walked into the garden and picked it. I hope it won’t be missed.” He beetled his brows, “I’m sorry, his name was …”

The woman answered flatly, “Rogad. Geman Rogad.”

“The very gent! Fine pair of boots, I should have thought.” The stranger wracked his brain again, “In the grain trade was it … ?” 

The man this time; “Not hardly. He runs the Guardi.” 

_____________-------_____________

The next morning Nag Kath was up with the birds. The rest of Trum Dreng would take longer. A young lad was snoozing at the desk when he walked down but woke up quickly with a clear head. 

“Too early for breakfast?”

“Why no sir, if eggs and muffins will serve.”

“And tea, thank you.” The desk clerk walked the man (his hair was over his ears) to the best table on the empty floor but Nag Kath asked, “If you don’t mind, I’d like the table next to the column.” It was all the same to his host so the clerk nodded and went to wake the cooks. The Elf chose the seat after peering through his drapes upstairs. The only place on the street across from the inn that wouldn’t be exposed by the sun at anytime of day was an alley between a notary and the chemist. 

And there he was; a hulking soldier in uncomfortable party clothes trying not to be obvious. If his boss ran security for Trum Dreng, on this of all days, the fellow would be well down the pecking-order. Nag Kath could not be seen where he sat because of the glare on the real glass window panes. He broke his fast quickly and walked into the kitchen.

Just as in the Provin galley, a large, square woman was giving orders to a young lass trying to keep up. The older one gave him a challenging look. His rakish smile had no chance with her so the poor man asked, “I’m told the stables are just in back here. Hope I didn’t take the wrong turn.”

Must be a guest. She managed the minimum smile and offered, “Of course, sir. Just out the door and to your left. Can’t miss it.”

“You are a dear.”

He wandered to the stable being sure to peep down the space between buildings in case his shadow was better than he looked. There was always the possibility that the troll was a decoy and his real tail was a man with a face no one ever recalled.

The stableman was already in. A lean fellow about forty, he wore a knee-brace like Eomander and bore a thin scar along his ear that could only have been caused by a blade. The fellow said without a trace of hangover, “Morning. Can I help you?”

Nag Kath answered, “I’m at the Fair Maid and came in with a horse and mule yesterday. Just thought I’d check.”

“Had to put them together in a big stall. Short notice, I’m afraid.”

“They won’t mind. I’ve just come by the horse, thought I’d ask you to look him over.”

The stableman spit something brown and said, “Already did. The horse has a bad shoe and the other three aren’t far behind. His back left hoof has some rot. Been kept near a bog or I’m simple. The mule leads a charmed life.”

“Don’t tell him or I’ll never hear the end of it. Please change the shoes and do what you can for him. I won’t need him for a few days. Now, do I settle with you or the Maid?”

“Either. I own the place. Name’s Amandrol.” As Nag Kath started to leave the man added, “Horses in bogs usually need a good purge.” The Elf nodded and made his way to Thomald below Quigley.

Almost to the gate he found the shop with the large boot hanging from the porch rafters. He knocked. The door was locked. On this day, at this hour, that was likely. Nag Kath peered in the small window next to the entrance but the rooms were black. He started to leave when the door swung open and an old, bald man barked, “I already told you I’m happy with Troxald!”

He started to swing the door shut when Nag Kath cried, “I’m sure you are, but I need new boots!”

The old boy stopped in mid-slam and fished a monocle out of his shirt pocket. Adjusting it to his eye he said, “Thought you were that Groather boy trying to sell me his family’s leathers. Though what either of you would be doing up at this time of day is beyond me. Haven’t you got anything better to do?!”

As the Elf fumbled for a response the man said, “Well, don’t just stand there.”

The cobbler wandered back through the cluttered front to an even more cluttered workshop. “Sit down and take off your right boot … no, not that chair. The rung’s busted.”

Nag Kath did as told and handed his boot to the man who sat in a more comfortable chair six feet away. The old fellow slipped his monocle in his pocket and took one from the opposite pocket for his other eye. The examination took at least a minute. He put that monocle away and said, “This boot is too big for you. The wear patterns inside don’t reach the edge.”

That boot fit perfectly in Minas Tirith. He wouldn’t tell the cobbler but his feet had gotten smaller, Gandalf’s spell probably. The man leaned forward, “Now, what do you need from me?”

“I would like a new pair of boots for riding and a pair of shoes for walking. The trouble is that I’ll be leaving in two days and I don’t want to take you away from the celebration.”

“Paghh. I don’t commemorate the old villain’s feast. Most of the pieces are already made on those shelves. I can have them for you. It will be a silver for the both of them. Your boots aren’t that far gone. Throw in another eight groats and I’ll resole them. Half on deposit is customary.”

The man measured his feet and they talked for another fifteen minutes about color and thickness. Then the customer asked, “Don’t suppose you can recommend a dry goods store open today?

“Chanderie and Family. Block short of Quigley. Yellow door.”

The Elf pressed his luck after paying in full, “I saw a fine pair of black boots last night on a fancy gentleman. Your work?”

“Nah. Vandellos serves the gentry. I cater more to soldiers. There’s enough work for both. I’ll see you in two days.”

_______________-------_______________

It was time to give the Guardi something to do. Nag Kath walked back into the kitchen and got the same stares. As if relieved, he shared the glad news; “The stableman tells me the hoof will heal!”

Well, that was good. 

Nag Kath walked through the hall and right out the front door figuring his shadow was still waiting. He turned right and went back down Thomald a block to Chanderie. 

In the country folk made everything they wore themselves. Who else would do it? In the cities, upper society had everything custom sewn. From there down to fair-sized towns, hopefully this one included, the wealthy still had things made but some stores carried apparel in common sizes or garments that could would fit many, like shirts, underclothes, socks and the like, usually made by the same tailors serving the carriage-trade when business was slow. 

The door was unlocked. A very plain young woman with a white cloth cap tied to her hair walked up to him and asked, “How my I help thee today?”

Thee? That was ‘you’, right? Gandalf was a stickler for grammar in every language he spoke. This was the Westron version of old Elvish. That explained the plainness and why this woman was awake when everyone else her age was still snoring. She was probably in the local chapter of Valarans. It also explained how the boot maker knew they would be open at this indecent hour. His was not the ideal first question to ask a conservative young woman but he did, “Do you have delicate garments?”

She beamed a smile of perfect white teeth and said, “If thee will follow me this way.” Towards the back of the store stood a rack of cubbyholes like in Orthanc, filled with underclothing. With unexpected boldness she looked him up and down and said, “I think thee will find the medium size most comfortable.”

“Fine. I’ll take ten of them.” 

I fear, sir, that we only have seven here. But I can have the others brought to thee later today.”

Nag Kath was sorely tempted to tell her to have his handman, who was busy studying horse droppings across the street, bring them up. No, let them have their conspiracies. Before he left he ordered ten pairs of socks, six white blouses, a brimmed hat, a good buy on a pair of large leather gloves and a vest. All of that would be delivered to his room this afternoon.

Two doors down he bought a new leather halter to replace the worn rope lead for A’mash, six steel fishhooks and a frying pan with a proper handle. Satisfied with his shopping, Nag Kath went in the front door of the inn. The desk clerk from yesterday was back on shift. Nag Kath approached him and asked, “Can you recommend a tailor who can help me with fitted trousers and a jacket while I am here?

The clerk thought a few seconds and said in a soft voice, “That will be difficult with the holiday. There is a man near the gate, off to the east, a foreigner. Not where our better families go, but I understand he does good work.”

Nag Kath slid him a fiver. “Don’t suppose you heard who?”

“Jugesh or Jujeth … How does one pronounce such names? Off Thomald, turn on Transie …”

The Elf slipped out the back this time and made for the south gate again. At the boot makers he turned left and made his way to a section of town where many small homes were also businesses that did not need or could not afford high-street frontage. The third boy he asked pointed to a modest house with two real windows to catch the southern sun. 

He knocked and an olive-skinned, middle-aged woman cracked the door. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m told you can help me with clothing.” She said something he didn’t catch as a hand opened the door wider and a spare, wise-looking man appraised him. The Elf asked, “Good morning, sir. I’m looking for Mr. Jugesh. I was told he could help me with garments.”

“I am Juegesh. Please, come in.”

Nag Kath thought he remembered the accent being described as from Khand. He hadn’t heard it himself, but people mimicking it badly emphasized the same syllables. The man led him to a small sitting room and motioned towards an ornately carved chair of dark wood. 

“My name is Nag Kath and I would like to have three pairs of trousers and a light jacket made to fit. I’m afraid this would need to be in a hurry since I will leave in two or three days.” 

The man looked lost in thought for a minute. Then he rose and said something down the hall in his own language. Moments later, a younger man Nag Kath took to be his son walked in. They spoke in their tongue briefly, looking at the Elf twice and the son left.

“Mr. Kath, that may be possible. A man as tall as you, but heavier, ordered two pairs of trousers a year ago. He never returned. We fear the worst. If the fabric meets your approval, they could be taken-in much faster than cutting new garments.” The young man returned with two pairs of trousers and unfolded them for his father. The father handed them to Nag Kath who said they would be fine. “The third pair will take the full two days. Now, tell me about the jacket you desire.”

They talked and measured for half a bell. Mrs. Juegesh returned with tea. Nag Kath smelled deeply and smiled, “Telandren, northern I should think.” Mr. Tallazh sometimes brought his own tea to the lessons.

The Juegesh’s were heartened. “A little stale I confess. Mr. Kath, the three pairs of trousers and your jacket will be ready by the time you leave. I fear I must charge a silver and ten. That includes a premium for placing your commission ahead of all others. Half of the balance is customary.” He must be in-league with the cobbler! Nag Kath paid him in full and asked if they were completed early, could they be brought to the Fair Maid?

The cooks didn’t even bother looking when he came back in.

_____________-------_____________

Mayor Cathad’s handman was fussing over the correct knot for his kerchief but his master would not hold still. “You tell me the Elf got stinking drunk last night and this morning he bought underwear?!”

“Yes sir. And a frying pan.”

The same men were sitting in the same room. This time the mayor’s elder son was with them. They could see the vein in the mayor’s temple throbbing. 

Chief Rogad was unafraid. The mayor told him to keep an eye on the motley Elf and he had. Rogad had other duties today for the safety and security of Progress. “And there’s this, sir.” He produced the picture of Lieff scowling up Thomald. The knot was progressing so Mayor Cathad gestured to show the other men.

All thought it good. Vellend thought it very good, “I see some Lentillar in it.”

The mayor frustrated his man again and turned to his associates. “It is of no moment. How does this affect Isengard and Gondor?”

Captain Marchand wasn’t afraid either. He had the soldiers. “I make it thusly: The Maedos have consolidated as far as the foothills. We control from the river down on our side. We can come to an accommodation. With our mutual border in accord, they can finish the hillmen by the next snows which gives us both free access to the Dusenorn. 

“Now, we have a contingent of Gondorans who are in Orthanc with safe passage by Éomer, for all the good that will do them. Our concern is Gondor coming up the Isen and Greyflood from the sea. As long as they do not think to impose governors here, all is fine. Enedwaith along the coast is a wasteland so they have to get here from the rivers. Perhaps they are looking for Arnor to close the vise from Eregion."

Laster Cathad sneered, “Arnor? There is no Arnor. They could not muster enough troops to quench a barn fire.” The mayor’s elder son and heir was a comely, proud and haughty young man of questionable intelligence. He led a troop of cavalry badly against the Dunlendings when the latter tried to hold their ground after support from Isengard collapsed. A dead man was blamed.

Now he and a small group of wealthy men’s sons were positioning themselves as the new power in Trum Dreng against Laster’s inevitable elevation. Sobriety was not required. That the mayor was only middle-aged and in reasonably good health did not matter. Laster was generally loathed and wise men excluded him from their councils.

The mayor’s handman asserted himself. “Sir, may I remind you that your lady wife will already be waiting for you in the carriage?”

Mayor Cathad looked at him and softened, “I am sorry, Pertand. And I am sorry my friends. I will see you at the granary. Now, Pertand, tie your best knot! Mrs. Cathad deserves nothing less!”

Naedrath’s Progress was based on the return of its namesake from a successful battle against eastern forces three centuries ago. He made Trum Dreng his capital and marched up what is now Thomald Street with his knights. Town Elders announced him at different stations along the route. Then he was forgotten for the next 250 years. As a recruiting ploy during an unpopular border skirmish, the Progress was reenacted three generations ago. 

Commerce being what it is; the original stations for the readings had changed hands many times. The starting point for the walk was now occupied by the city granary. Access to the loading dock from Thomald Street was blocked by temporary wooden viewing stands to seat dignitaries and guests for the opening readings. The harvest was months away so the granary was closed this week.

For the first year of the new Fourth Age, the mayor would stand-in for Naedrath just as he had nine years ago. There were fifty honorary knights who would make the walk behind him and a varying number of invitees who could also walk or just enjoy the festivities. Everyone else lined the streets to cheer but had to wait until the final reading on Quigley before the public houses could serve refreshments.

The procession following them was less solemn. Carts and mummers and carriages of important persons would also enjoy the festivities. People threw sweets and presents to children who painted their faces with flowers. An honor guard of eight horses rode behind the knights. The honor guard used to ride in front until suspected Dunlending sympathizers crept into the stable a few years back and fed the horses pugus roots. 

The mayor and his knights made it to the viewing station on time. After opening remarks, the Progress continued up Thomald with readings at four stations. This took a while. In total, some 70 people, few of them young, walked uphill for a long quarter mile. None of the knights expired this year but one old man called his son in to finish the route. 

Nag Kath positioned himself two blocks up from the granary. His height gave him a good view wherever he stood. He especially enjoyed the painted carts with children throwing sweets to other children lining the route. The taciturn lamplighter shuffled behind the pack until some of the youngsters shouted, “Mr. Leiff! Mr. Leiff!” His face blossomed into a beaming smile and he gave them candies.

Nag Kath liked children and copied others around him handing them coppers. As that wave passed he raised his eyes and saw two women on the other side of the street. One was a tall redhead with pale skin in a festive skirt and white blouse. He fixed his eyes on her and saw her turn towards him just as a second sweet carriage passed between them. Another flock of squealing lads and lasses chased behind and he moved to make room. When he looked up, she was gone. 

Oh well! The day was young and filled with promise. Hadn’t the bag boy said evening was when young people made acquaintances? A horn would sound when the taps could pour so now everyone in the wake was biding their time. Many private homes had their kegs primed but usually respected the tradition with a ceremonial horn of their own. Nag Kath returned to the Fair Maid and started climbing the stairs when the desk clerk saw him and said, “Excuse me sir. There is someone here who would like word.”

Maybe it was time to see what the guardi wanted. A well-dressed man walked over and shook hands. “Forgive me for bothering you on this special day. I am Davet Maedos. My cousin told me you drew a picture of his father last night. I would like to commission a picture of my father and wanted to know if you do that professionally?”

“Yes I do. I’m afraid I will be leaving in only two days, though.”

“I was hoping you might be available tomorrow afternoon. We have obligations in the morning but they should be finished after lunch.”

Nag Kath was flattered. It had been a while since someone wanted to pay for his doodlings. He had given some nice pieces away but this was different. And he was glad this wasn’t the old lamplighter sketch. The wrong people had that. “I would be glad to.” Nag Kath asked Mr. Maedos many questions about light, subject, did they have their own paper or should he use his? The man answered as many as he could but told the blonde man that they would trust his judgment and gave him the address. Nag Kath walked up to his room in a good mood. 

His clothes were waiting on the bed.

_____________-------_____________

Davet Meados rode into the circle and dismounted. A groom took the reins. Here for more than the Progress, his family was staying in three houses originally built by a single owner for himself and two married daughters that formed a ring with enclosed grounds. They were now separately owned but during progress week, people with desirable homes often rented them to out-of-towners and stayed with relatives. Servants stayed, hoping to hear saleable gossip, but the Maedos brought their own people so the servants had to find beds like everyone else.

Davet walked down the main corridor and into a small dining room to meet a man who looked a great deal like him. “He agreed, first brother.”

The man looked up from his toast and said, “Excellent! It is nothing to our purpose here, but I take this as a good omen.”

“He will be here at two. The fellow asked a lot of questions about how this was to be done. He seems to know his business.”

“He did that little sketch in five minutes in a barley room. Yes, good.”

The first and third sons of Shurat Boronos Maedos were here with their father as formal invitees. A Maedos had never been here before, in that capacity anyway. Their clan was one of several that had fought for generations over the ground leading from the foothills of the Gravenwood to about fifty miles from here on the south bank of the Dusenorn. It was fertile land with timber. Men close to the mountain had to make practical choices about allies. Being with or against hillmen did not necessarily mean in league with Saruman. A few years ago, the Shurat decided nominal loyalty to the Steward was the better choice which set them against their two most traditional rivals. Things looked bleak until by some miracle, the wizard marched his entire army to Rohan where they were massacred to last the orc. The Maedos quickly settled scores with Trac Blas and the Wintornes after their support from Orthanc vanished. Lesser families were forced to terms.

They were preeminent but not supreme. Only five generations deep, the Maedos were lately arrived. They needed to anoint their power with gravitas. Their ancestors did not have paintings or tapestries commissioned in the style of the Stewards but they made a practice of formally drawing the reigning Shurat for the family legacy. Boronos had not done that after seven years of rule, largely because the most capable artist of the area died well before he inherited the sword. Since they wanted to be an old family, those portraits hung in a gallery room so visitors could appreciate their heritage.

Now First Son stumbled across a man who should be able to draw a passable picture as they prepared to leave, a fortunate coincidence and a chance to respect their honored father. Boronos thought it an excellent idea after they concluded negotiations with the local powers tomorrow morning.

That meeting was their real purpose. Each side had much to gain. It seemed a logical move. There was no one of note above the river. Maedos leadership to the east and Cathad’s consortium in the west was finally stable. The problem for both was that there was no reason for this new King to worry about either of their claims. Now that the Umbar pirates along the Anduin mouth were being swept away, Elessar could send as many ships as he wanted to order folk around in Dunland. Boronos already knew Orthanc was now in Gondoran hands. That was fine. If they wanted to cart food up that rock, let them. Gondor had never done anything for this part of Dunland. The Maedos had no trouble being part of the Reunited Kingdom as long as they held their lands. If Trum Dreng felt the same and they could offer loyalty and constancy, there was no reason for the central government to meddle.

The next year was critical. The Shurat wanted crops planted and babies put to suck. If truce with Trum Dreng allowed them to pull a full militia company off the vale between this region and his, the eastern hillmen could be driven to more congenial ground by winter. That meant ceding several square miles of contested farmland, but the compromise would free Marchand's rangers to manage bandit gangs to their southeast. Yes, they could do this.

One would think the eastern clans less sophisticated than those closer to Gondor but that was not always the case, particularly when it came to intelligence. The Maedos had friends in Minas Tirith. They also had a few friends here, including one in the mayor’s household staff. Cathad was mostly concerned with trade but he had let a few things slip at dinner.

“That is good, First Brother. Will you be here to supervise the portrait?”

“Better not. I told him the man in the bar was my father. If you can handle that, I’ll see to the rearguard home. Marchand seems a decent sort, but he is also a good soldier and we are exposed.”

“Thank you, First Brother. I will tell father when he returns.”

“Third Brother, you should know; Olan Gangmir was slain. It seems he ambushed the wrong peddlers. One of his men died from a blow to the head. What was left of two more was found in a brewery with tales of horror.” Another bite of toast, “I let them live.”

The younger man poked at the wall of his mouth with his tongue before saying, “Gangmir served his purpose. He would not have fit in the new way of things.”

Above them on Quigley, Mayor Cathad, Captain Marchand and a few other knights sat down in the pavilion after a long lunch with most of the invitees. Rogad was also there. In private, he and the mayor were on first-name terms. The mayor proclaimed, “That went well. No one keeled over. I remembered my lines, save us! My kerchief did not betray me. And the Maedos looked content. What say you?”

Rogad added, “Fewer pickpockets too. I have nothing new on the Elf. He went to the Progress, gave groats to the children and returned to the inn.

The mayor looked at the faces. They did not include his son who was celebrating with his own friends. “Geman, I think we can leave him be, unless anyone thinks differently.”

No one spoke so he finished, “Good work today, I will see you here in the morning.”

Laster Cathad knew none of this. He was with his followers. They were not singing and making merry. They were plotting. The band called themselves the Revanthars honoring a warlord several generations after Naedrath. Some were too young to fight in the war. Some were conveniently elsewhere. Some fought, including two in Laster Cathad’s ill-fated raid. They fancied themselves a vigilante militia that would someday enforce higher codes of conduct than the Guardi. More than anything, they desperately wanted to be important. Each was a privileged son. They could afford fine horses, kit and lifestyle. Some could afford more than others but none had to work. Six of the twelve were at the long table of their favorite tavern. 

Laster was holding court, “Patriots, there is a problem we may be able to repair for Trum Dreng. I understand an Elf has come to town after consorting with elements of the crown in Rohan and Isengard. I cannot imagine he means us well. We should keep an eye on him.” He turned to obsequious Temolan, “He is staying at the Fair Maid. I want you to drop by before we join our friends tonight at the Brimmam’s party. Rogad probably has one of his trolls watching. If he is there, just take it up in the morning. Gol, you be there tomorrow too. Let us plan to talk again after midday.” 

_____________-------_____________

Nag Kath had no plans but he had an excellent vantage point thanks to poor Mr. Levanthar’s cancellation. The streets filled with singers, puppeteers and jugglers. Loud vendors with carts hawked hot meat pastries. Flowers were everywhere. The common folk were out in force. Farmers from far and wide came to celebrate. They were still months away from the harvest but had saved their coppers for tonight.

As darkness fell, Nag Kath went downstairs and had dinner with another visitor who was in the wool trade. When he wandered out the door, his shadow was gone. Good. Perhaps they let the poor man go home for supper. He felt refreshed after washing in his basin and donning a new shirt, socks and undergarments. Turning right on Thomald the crowd became less affluent but more enthusiastic. About halfway between Quigley and the south gate he heard music that reminded him of the Catanard.

This would be a farmers' bar. Men and women were dancing with heavy boots to a reel played by a fiddler, flutist and a man slapping an assortment of drums. Most of these folks knew each other. Nag Kath took an empty stool at the bar and was served an ale. No barley-spirit house; this. You had your choice of red beer or red beer. That was more than Vandery could say. It was loud between the musicians and abuse the wooden floor was taking. He liked it though. There was no pretense. Every other song, one of the farmers was reluctantly put forward to sing with the trio. They were good. Nag Kath wondered if they had practiced knowing their friends would badger them to perform.

Dancing here was like the lower two levels of Minas Tirith. That changed as you climbed in the White City. At the highest end of the scale were celebrated artists who traveled with their own musicians performing historical pageants. Those usually cost money so he only saw the free shows supported by the Merchants Guild.

It was private dancing that fascinated Nag Kath. On the fifth level were small clubs where couples would move with each other in sensuous rhythm to no more than three musicians. These were dances of mature love. They swayed and caressed as if preparing for more intimate moments to come. Musicians who could time their pulses to raise passions were among the best paid in the land. The fifth level was above his society, but he was an attractive man and club owners liked pretty men as ornaments. They let him sketch as long he wasn’t in the way. He knew Kataleese by then and adapted those movements with her. 

Well down the order of precedence, country reels were dances of courtship. No one was ever alone with a partner very long. They were performed as teams of sexes by design. That wouldn’t stop occasional fights when lonely men who had planned to approach a woman all year found they were in line. For the most part, people had a good time and sweated the beer out of their blood. 

As the dancers spun around the room, a sturdy lass kept looking his way. She wheeled over to his stool and manhandled him onto the floor. Her friends didn’t object. Elf reflexes helped him learn the basic steps as well as most of the people in the circle. At the stanza, men joined palms with the men across from them to form an arch. There were at least five arches in a row that women would duck under to then pair with one of the last two men for the next reel. Towards the end of the song, his powerful gal landed with a big-nosed farmer who smiled from ear to ear. When it came Nag Kath’s turn, the woman in his arms was his tall redhead.


	23. Talereth

**_Chapter 23_ **

**_Talereth_ **

It wasn’t one of his “fast” episodes, but time stopped. They stood on the floor gazing at one another while the other dancers twisted to avoid them. The song ended and the musicians sipped ales of their own. 

The heat between them needed to dissipate slowly. The cleverest quip would surely fail. This was a time when one of Nag Kath’s best traits served him. Learning a new language from scratch meant he seldom started conversations. That meant he seldom started stupid conversations. 

The woman finally said, “I saw you with the children at the Progress. They were having such fun.”

“Yes, they followed the sweet wagon.”

“I’m Talereth. My friends call me Tal.”

“I am Nag Kath.”

“Where are you going now, Nag Kath?”

The changeling thought a moment and offered in his stilted accent, “I will go to Arnor.”

The tension finally broke, “No, I mean tonight, silly.”

The Elf was still not used to playful chiding from the fair sex. “Oh, I have no plans.” Other than glancing at his lost ale, they had not taken their eyes off each other. He felt like swaying in fifth level movements.

She licked her lips ever so slightly and murmured, “Come, I know a place.”

She took his arm and they walked out the door then left towards the gate. Neither found much to say. These were among the poorer parts of town east of the high street. A block before his cobbler’s, she made another left on the dirt road of a residential district. The night was still young and more people were heading towards the sounds and smells of Progress night than leaving. He could see but wondered how she did. They arrived at a small house with a railed porch. By the light of a single lantern, an old woman sat in a rocking-chair knitting. Tal called, “Hello, Mrs. Skilleth.”

The old lady did not want to lose her stitch count so she said without looking, “Hello Anorell.”

Climbing the steps with Nag Kath in tow, Tal corrected, “No Mrs. Skilleth, it’s Talereth.”

Pinching her stitches to remember where she was, the woman adjusted her gaze and said, “Of course, dear. You both have such nice voices.”

“Mrs. Skilleth, this is Nag Kath.”

“Bout time! Your year is over.” Turning to the Elf, “So you’re the fellow she’s to marry!”

Most men would have coughed through their noses but Nag Kath did not understand. Tal rescued him, “Oh no, Mrs. Skilleth. That’s over. We just met at a dance on Thomald.”

The old lady reached the end of her row and put her knitting in her lap. She had a long, hard look at Nag Kath. Her vision was poor and the lamp only helped so much. She leaned back in her rocker and made a face, “Tal, be a dear and go get us some tea.”

Tal rose and asked, “Is the water hot?”

Mrs. Stilleth rocked gently and said, “There is cold tea on the counter. Cups are on the first shelf.”

Tal lit a candle from the knitter's lamp and walked into the dark hall towards the tiny kitchen. She had been here before but it still took a while to find things. She groped where a nearsighted person would leave them. As soon as Tal was gone, Mrs. Stilleth stared at Nag Kath and demanded, “Why are you here?” The question was from a much deeper and colder place than protecting pretty Tal’s virtue.

Again, Nag Kath did not understand. As he tried to respond to the sudden change in the old lady’s demeanor she added, “You have not been here for a long time. You should have stayed away. It is not right that you came back! Where are you from?”

That was a question he could answer, “Isengard.”

She was not expecting that at all. "You’re an Elf? But you’re not. You have healed someone recently. I feel it … and something else! What are you?! And what do you want with her?”

That was asked as Tal emerged from the house with three mismatched mugs. Her face dropped. “Mrs. Skilleth, what ever is wrong?”

“Ask him.”

Still holding the mugs, poor Tal looked from the fierce old woman to the handsome farm hand and held back tears. Mrs. Skilleth croaked, “Here, give me the blue mug!”

Tal sat down and tried to give a mug to the blonde. After a moment he looked in her eyes and took the mug but placed it on the planks. In anguish, Tal finally demanded, “Someone tell me what is wrong!”

Nag Kath knew it was his turn, “I am come from a dark and terrible place, a place that was mercifully wiped from the face of the earth. I am the last. I do not know how she knows, but she knows. I should go now.” He had been judged again and found wanting.

As if nothing had happened, Mrs. Skilleth rose and yawned, “I get so tired these days. Good night you two.” With that she collected her yarn and quietly walked into her home.

The tears came, another good time to say nothing. Tal looked at him as if to speak and changed her mind. Nag Kath reached down and sipped his tea. It was strangely sweet. Looking into his mug he muttered, “I am not what I seem. This should have been your night to forget your worries and I have spoiled that. I am so sorry.”

Tal wiped her nose with her sleeve. Did poor Mrs. Skilleth mean he was an outlaw or villain or someone who took advantage? She was a canny old crone. Oh, this was terrible! Nag Kath saw her distress and said as calmly as he could, “You are so fair. I remembered you from the street.” He touched her cheek with his fingers.

Tal suddenly reached for his hand and held it tight to her face. Mrs. Stilleth was right. Her year was over. This tender man was here, now. Tal allowed herself one last sniffle and took Nag Kath by the hand to the spare room.

_____________-------_____________

He woke later than usual. The sun was already up. Tal was curled against him sound asleep. He held her shoulder and kissed her neck but other than a small “Hmmmm” she did not stir. Nag Kath rose and dressed then tiptoed with his boots in hand to the porch.

Mrs. Stilleth was sitting in her rocker, this time without her knitting. Maybe she had seen men sneaking out before. The blue mug was steaming. Had he missed her building the fire and boiling the water? She had secrets too. In his life, that was not the concern it would be for mortals. He eased over to the chair he took last night and started to put on his boots.

“Man up the street can fix that hole.” Maybe her vision was better than he thought too.

“Bald, with a monocle?”

“Two monocles.”

“He is making new ones.”

The old lady screwed up her face again and snapped, “She wasn’t ready! And you should have known that!”

“Not ready for what?”

“To heal, of course!” Your kind can draw poison and disease with no thought. At your age with no affect at all.”

“What age?”

Shaking her head in disappointment, “Not the sharpest sword in the rack.”

“What age?”

“I figure you for early Third Age. Perhaps older.”

Nag Kath said, “I was ten months old when Barad Dur fell.”

Mrs. Stilleth was not ready for that. She leaned forward and said softly, “Tell me.”

He did. She sipped her tea quietly for several minutes in deep thought and said, “She has just finished her mourning, you know.” 

“It is still morning.”

The old woman didn’t notice, “Yes, yes, the boy was killed in a skirmish. Not much was said. It is her time to return to the world.” Gathering her thoughts, “Come back here tonight, young man. I will talk with Tal.”

Her gaze shifted behind his head and he knew the conversation was over. Pulling on the other oversized boot, he walked back to the stable. 

Amandrol was repairing a bridle. There were nine horses and A’mash who had been moved to another stall as the Progress visitors left. Most of the man’s trade was boarding animals for residents who had the funds but not the inclination or space to keep them at home. Two carriages were under cover as well.

The man looked up as Nag Kath walked in. “Good morning, sir. I must say, you rise earlier than most this week.”

“Habit of a lifetime, and good day to you Mr. Amandrol. How is the horse?”

“I think that hoof will heal fine but you should not ride him hard for two weeks. There aren’t enough nails in that shoe to hold on rough ground at any sort of pace. I replaced all four and gave him the purge after you left.”

“I could use him this afternoon if he is fit.”

“The purge will take another day but he can ride.” The man offered the closest thing he had to a smile, “You might tell others not to follow close.” 

The Elf knew nothing of past Progress’ but appreciated courtesy, “I will keep that in mind. Thank you for taking such good care of Vandery. I’ll collect him after lunch.”

He slipped in the kitchen. His harridan must be off today but yesterday’s maid and another giggled when he stepped inside. The new one was comely and held her hand over her mouth so as not to betray a smile. The night man said, “Good morning, Mr. Kath. Nothing like a brisk walk to start the day.”

They knew he hadn’t returned last night. That must happen often at inns. It was better to pretend ignorance than embarrass guests with efficiency. Nag Kath appreciated the man’s discretion and smiled. “I’ll just go upstairs for a bit and come back for breakfast. Can I have my same table?”

It was later than yesterday’s meal. More people were eating but giving him the worst seat in the room would not be a problem. “Of course, sir. Shall I have your meal prepared?”

“Yes, but just fruit and loaves today, with lots of hot tea.”

From his room he peered out the drapes to the street below. His watcher was gone. He must have bored them. Nag Kath rinsed himself with a towel and fresh water before more new clothes and breakfast. After eating he organized his art supplies. This was a genuine commission and he shouldn’t shamble in with moldy paper. Everything seemed in good order. He had to sharpen the pencils that had banged around inside. The paper and charcoal were fine. Nag Kath walked over to the window and looked through the drapes again. People were up and about. This was a normal business day even if some of the shoppers nursed pounding heads. He stayed to his room.

_____________------____________

At the mayor’s home, negotiations had gone well. The Shurat, two of his sons and the Shurat’s uncle had come with a small honor guard who were under strict instructions not to pick at old scabs.

They and the Trum Dreng contingent agreed on the major items that had been discussed by their representatives. Uncle Advernath Maedos summarized, “Gentlemen, now that we have come to honorable terms, I believe the next step will be to send a contingent to the White City and show the King that we are capable and dependable vassals. We have it on good authority (better than he wanted to share) that his Highness is not selling positions to his lords, not even extracting tribute from enemies, much less friends.

"I propose that the Shurat’s Second Son and myself join a like number of your representatives along with staff and servants to visit Minas Tirith shortly. There we will make the case that this region is very much as King Elessar should want it while we consolidate our positions within the lines we have just drawn.”

Vellend spoke for the region, “We have discussed this among ourselves and agree that an embassy to the White City is appropriate. Perhaps even a permanent presence as barge traffic improves. It may also be in our best interests to have representatives in each others’ districts to avoid misunderstandings.” Everyone there knew that essentially meant hostages against good behavior but that was a time-honored practice. Lackluster cousins would be promoted in short order.

Mayor Cathad said in good spirits, “Formal documents are being prepared for our signatures.” Nodding to the scribe, “If you gentlemen could join us for a light lunch, they should be ready when we have dined. I understand cook has done wonders with the first blueberries of the season.”

After his own light lunch, Nag Kath went out the front door to Chanderie and Family to see if he could replace his gum eraser. These were made of sap gathered from the baelus tree. The same girl shook her head. There were no such trees in Trum Dreng. His old ones still had life and they would have to do. He did buy a nice leather satchel to hold his hard board, smaller papers and supplies more manageably. For this commission he still brought the full tube.

The Elf walked back to the stable. No one appeared but Vandery was already saddled and fit for travel. He scratched the horse behind the ear and got a muzzle in his face. Nag Kath was secretly relieved. He still hadn’t saddled the horse himself and winced remembering the Rohirrim kneeing their mounts cinching the belly strap. 

Nag Kath rode down Thomald and turned right about even with the farmer’s tavern on a road that soon crossed a hundred yards of jagged rocks before opening onto a modest area of homes. He followed Mr. Meados’ instructions and was there in another ten minutes. Vandery caused no outrages. Slowing into the courtyard, a groom in civilian clothes but with undoubted army countenance took the reins and asked him to present himself inside the double doors. Before he got there; the doors opened and a similar man said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Kath. Follow me.”

He was led down a short corridor to a dining room where he found his employer reading a note at the table. Mr. Maedos rose immediately and shook hands. “I am so glad you came. I hope you enjoyed the Progress.”

“Very much, thank you.”

Meados said, “Let me introduce you to father.” They went a little further into the corridor to a living room on the other side. At the window was a powerfully built man of average height looking over the grounds. Neither of the two younger men disturbed him but he quickly turned and walked over.

The Shurat was an artist’s dream. He had a complex face with a beard and full head of black hair that was enhanced by a shock of white brushed back from his widow’s peak. The man was younger than Nag Kath expected given the maturity of his son. He shook hands with the grip of a bear, “I am Boronos Meados. Thank you for coming. Has my son explained what we want?”

“Nag Kath, sir. We discussed that but I would like to get your thoughts too.”

The elder Maedos gestured to a small table with four chairs. The Elf started, “I understand this is a formal portrait to match those in your family hall. I hope you can tell me if I need to follow the style of former portraitists or if you are free to make your own decisions.”

The men looked at each other and the younger said, “They are quite different. Some are pencil and others ink. One was painted some time ago but, I confess, not well.”

Boronos added with a laugh, “Not a single smile among them! Mr. Kath, I’m sure whatever you suggest will be fine.”

“One last question sir. Do you have a size in mind?” He took the top off his tube. Both men watched intently but kept their hands on the table. Nag Kath pulled the roll of papers out and said, “This is the largest size I have but not the best. This one is the largest I have in the quality I think you need.”

Boronos immediately pointed to the smaller, whiter stock.

Nag Kath said, “Fine. If I have liberty to choose, I think the light would be most flattering in the corner by the window. Mr. Maedos …” looking at the younger, “… if you can you help me move this table to the center of the room we can begin.”

The Elf did not know these were the lords of the lower Cartrev. They moved their own furniture as if born to honest labor. That shock of hair! Painting would be even better but for ink over pencil on the white paper, it was still there for all to see. Maedos senior held quite still in a good pose not knowing Nag Kath had already remembered it. The portraitist got it on the first draft.

Fifteen minutes later he looked up, “Sirs, if you would care to look, I can continue or start over more to your liking.”

They peered over either shoulder. It was certainly better than anything hanging now. Nag Kath had kept the fierceness of the man’s eyes and a small scar as they were. Maedos junior observed, “That is you for the ages, father.” Maedos the elder was about to say something when the attendant who showed Nag Kath in entered and stood patiently. Both men walked over to him. After a moment, the younger man said, “If you would excuse us Mr. Kath, a matter needs our attention. Please continue and we will return shortly.”

Nag Kath filled in the rest of the shading and started to ink the major lines. Only a few would need it. And that shock of hair!

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Shurat, quite sure. He is just outside.”

All three men walked out the front door to the artist’s horse. There could be no doubt. That was Olan Gangmir’s saddle and probably his horse too. And they knew the man had been spitted like a Syndolan pig barely a week before. What their friends could get out of the rattled survivors was that the tall, blonde man was a tough customer indeed. It was time for answers, but the blonde man had been too obvious to disappear just after concluding their agreement with Trum Dreng.

The portrait was done. It was better than they hoped. And now they might find out a good deal more before the ride east. The Shurat said, “Mr. Kath, we were about to have a drop of wine after a successful day. I would be honored if you joined us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maedos. Yes, I have nothing pressing.”

They went to the dining area where he met Davet Maedos and a servant brought a small pitcher and matching cups of thinly thrown clay with a blue glaze – Elvish he thought. After the wine was poured, they were left alone.

The younger Maedos asked about the fine horse Nag Kath was riding – an error. He could not have seen that horse from the house. They had a purpose here. This must be part and parcel of how he had been overestimated by everyone else. 

Nag Kath said in his Elf Lord voice, “Sirs, I came by that horse a few days ago. He is sweet tempered but a very plain nag indeed. I have nothing to hide and would be glad to share what I know, but in return, I need a few answers also.”

Boronos answered for both of them to confirm his assent to his son, “That is the fairest proposal I have heard all day. We have terms.”

Nag Kath went through rescuing the salt merchants and killing the villain, though not how fast the sword got through him. He also said he was traveling north from Gondor and stayed in Orthanc over the winter in Mithrandir’s service. He did not mention his origins and neither man asked. There was not much to the story. It also confirmed some of what the Maedos already knew so, presumably, the rest was reliable.

Boronos said, “That is a fair account. What you do not know is that the fellow you killed was a famous bandit in the region and was allied with the enemy during the war. You sit on his saddle.” There was no need to say the sentry Nag Kath hit never woke up. 

“My son and I are from just east of here at the invitation of Trum Dreng to make amends after long grievances. If you are here from Isengard, you already know some of the history.

Nag Kath said, “I do. Was it your men who brought home the silver tray?”

Another confirmation of truth, “It was, thank you. And now, through no fault of your own, people want to know why you arrived from such an ominous place at the same time so much was occurring here. Your tale sounds innocent enough.”

Nag Kath thought a second then asked, “I don’t suppose he has anything to do with another bad ‘un named Lev Corsann? I had to settle a couple of his trolls getting here.

Boronos smiled. “You do our labor for us, Mr. Kath. Now, you came here on business. What do we owe you for your fine work?”

The Elf considered, “It seems I need a new saddle.”

Both Maedos gave genuine laughs. Davit said, “I think we can manage that. Before I forget, you said you helped salt merchants. We have salt in our home region.”

“The Durgan cousins. One broke his leg but he will live. It was they who told me to keep the horse.” The Durgans were known as fair dealers in the Gravenwood. 

The Shurat rose to conclude the meeting. Again; the bear grip. “I do not know if your travels will bring you our way again, but if the Maedos can ever be of assistance, you have but to ask.”

_____________-------_____________

Intrigues were cooling. Mayor Cathad, the Captain and leading lights of Trum Dreng were pleased how things had gone with the Meados. The Elf seemed to be harmless so surveillance was dropped. He could purchase all the underpants he wanted, bless him. The Meados clan felt the same way and had received valuable information along with a good likeness of the Shurat in exchange for common knowledge and a saddle that wasn’t branded by a dead outlaw.

Those were added to the long list of things Laster Cathad did not know. At their chosen tavern, “It was him alright” toadied Tem. “Tall, blonde, man. He snuck in to see the Meados at their hired houses on the west side.”

Laster inquired, “How long was he there?”

“Two hours at least. Rode a rebel horse. Carried things in with him.”

Consorting with easterners little better than the hillmen! “Good work, Tem. Who else knows this?”

Tem considered, “Gol was with me. No one else. We gave Rogad’s men the slip.” He did not know that Rogad’s men had been reassigned. If they hadn’t been, they would have certainly seen Tem and Gol crashing through the bushes.

“Has he changed his location?”

“Still at The Fair Maid. Keeps the horse and a mule behind.”

Laster said evenly, “Amandrol will be no help.” The stableman was ex-Northpass Irregulars. He belonged to the old way. Laster now spoke in august tones. Unless you knew him, he had the gravity of a leader. “Keep an eye on him Tem. I will tell the others to prepare.”

Nag Kath had the afternoon to burn. His boots should be ready tomorrow and the cobbler would replace his current soles while he waited. The trousers and jacket should be complete too. His new saddle was a deal better than the old. Now that Vandery had been pampered and he had fresh togs, both cut finer figures than on their arrival.

He took Vandery back to the stable. Amandrol’s man was washing a new horse in the small paddock. “Hello there, I’ve brought him back for you.”

“Right you are sir. If I remember rightly, he gets his oats at supper time.”

“I don’t know, but that should be fine.”

Nag Kath handed the young man the reins and turned towards the Fair Lady when he heard, “Yes sir, your mount has admirers, he does.”

A hair stood up on the Elf’s neck. “You don’t say.”

“Two fine young men, gentlemen from the hill, they were. They were here this morning before you left. I think, no … wait … well, one of the horses we board belongs to a cousin of theirs if I understood them rightly, beggin’ your pardon for not paying better attention. I had a surly mare who hain’t eating right. Her …”

“He seems such an ordinary horse.”

“If I might make bold sir, he won’t win the Gate Run anytime soon. But they looked. Thought poorly of the saddle, though. I see you have another.”

A friendly businessman, Nag Kath calculated, “Well if they are interested in him, perhaps we could come to terms. Do you recall their names?”

“Oh yes sir. Everybody knows them. I just know them as Tem and Gol. Right proper fellows. Friends of Laster Cathad, that’s the Mayor’s boy. He and his fine blades will be important someday. Not that they pay me no mind.”

“Well, that gives me something to go on. How will I know Tem and Gol?” 

“Tem is short, dark haired, sports a hat something like yours but black. Fine boots. If we can keep this to ourselves sir, his beard is not the manliest. He would be better shaving like yourself.” He stroked his own respectable whiskers with his thumb and forefinger. “Gol is tall. Not as tall as you but taller than me. Sandy hair on the curly side. Not as well dressed. Good rider, I’m told. May have seen service in the east. Has a small scar below one eye, not that he hain’t a regular gentleman, mind.”

Nag Kath handed him a five-groat copper, “Let’s keep this between us” said with his finger alongside his nose, “No need to let others change their minds, eh?”

“Right you are, sir. I’ve already forgotten.” 

_____________-------_____________

Nag Kath ate supper early. Almost nobody was in the restaurant. It would be a slow night as residents of Trum Dreng aired the alcohol out of their systems.

What did he know? It seemed the two political factions got what they came for. If the guardi was still following him they would know about the Meados visits and the dry goods. They would not know about his boots or his new britches since he went through the kitchen on that trip. He wasn’t sure but he doubted he had a tail meeting Tal or the old healer. The clumsy trooper in the alley would have been obvious.

Now there was this next generation of lordlings. They may only want to buy a horse but he could not imagine anyone who could afford better walking through horse drostsh in fine boots looking at poor Vandery. 

Tomorrow he would be shot of Trum Dreng. He had had an excellent time. Soft bed, no meat stew, a lovely encounter, hmmm … and the last of Quastille’s wardrobe. Now, about this Laster fellow … It was time to visit a drinking hall where men the Mayor’s age would complain about things they had no intention of fixing. The Tradition was just the place. Those already here would be the last to leave too. He would hear their grievances!

He walked in and looked about the room as if he was to join or be joined. A well-preserved woman asked, “Is sir expecting someone?”

Nag Kath fumbled through, “I’m not sure. I …” turning to the woman he whispered, “Could that be Mr. Rastemulth? No, that’s not it. It has been so long …”

“The one in the gray sweater? That is Mr. Fandelving, sir. He is one of our regulars.”

“After my father died … let me just pay my respects. Could you have a pint of red brought to the table next to him?”

“Certainly sir, or perhaps a fine barley spirit?

He grinned, “After the Progress, I need to pull back.”

“Of course, sir.”

Nag Kath chose a chair that was in view but not directly facing the two men. He placed his tablet and papers to the side and rubbed his temples with his fingers. And he listened.

“I tell you, a tax to build that foolish Naedrath monument is a waste of money. People only come here to drink!”

Mr. Fandelving couldn’t agree more, “And we would need a new granary as well. Had they even considered that?”

“That bothers me less. It is a poor place for a granary now. I would prefer somewhere protected up the hill in case the lower orders get hungry!”

“Good point. Now what of these young people drinking before the procession? A man needs sustenance but …”

A maid brought Nag Kath’s ale with a smile and a curtsy. This was a tavern for folk who remember how things should be, by the Valar! When she was gone, he peered towards the two middle-aged men and said, “Forgive me but are you Mr. Fandelving? You might recall my father.”

“I can’t say I …”

“I take after my mother. I thought I remembered you owning property. We left here long ago but, well, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“That’s no trouble. Are you alone? Why don’t you join us?”

“That is most gracious.” He took his beer and tablet and slid the chair over. “I am Nag Solvanth,” using the scratcher Aleg's last name pulled from memory.

Handshakes all round including Mr. Temid Lustical who asked, “What brings you here, Mr. Solvanth?”

“I helped some gentlemen offering fine salt from the mountains and stayed to enjoy the festival. It has not changed much … but I was so much smaller then.” He paused and made a show of considering his words carefully. “Though, I confess, I saw some fellows about my age making rather free with the townsfolk. Mounted, well set-up, seemed to own the place. Forgive me if I sound rustic, but my upbringing was in the old way.” He had to bite his lip to keep from smiling when he remembered Uruks beating each other senseless with wooden swords. That now seemed long enough ago to put in perspective.

He hit a nerve. Mr. Lustical had comments at the ready, “That would be the Mayor’s son and his hangers-on. Bad lot. Or what’s left of them. They took the bait for the basest of ambushes when the Lendings pushed west.”

“Aye!” Fandelving exclaimed, “My cousin’s boy got an arrow in the gut. Took him two weeks to die!”

Nag Kath fanned the flame, “But the war is over. What business have they now with horses and arms?”

Both men started with, “They are playing at soldier.” Lustical continued, “The boy, the older boy I should say, is the crown-prince. His father is a good man and will probably live to a ripe age. But Laster is not content to bide his while. His fellows all have money and idle time. My own son thought to join their company until I declared I would name his idiot cousin as heir unless he attended to manly pursuits!”

Nag Kath weighed that, “Rich boys sometimes tend that way.” He smiled, “I had no such temptations. Do these young men actually meddle in Guardi business? I would see them taking a dim view of that.”

Fandelving this time; “Mayor Cathad gives his men a long leash. But Laster is his son and spoilt as old milk. Wise men avoid him in their councils. But a couple times since the war, his riders, ten or so …”

Lustical corrected, “A fair dozen with the Neth Falamn brothers, another bad lot! Fancy themselves the Revanthars, after another warlord, probably.”

Fandelving again, “Call it a dozen then. They decided the town fathers weren’t moving fast enough to remove undesirables. One time it was a family from Cartrev. Another it was … help me here Lustical …”

“Something to do with a traveler who claimed congress with dead relatives. Just a petty swindler selling ointments. The Quigley boys weren’t having that, I dare say. Roughed him up a bit on the way out the gate.”

Nag Kath let a little envy bleed into his next comment, “Though I must say; they have handsome horses!”

Fandelving agreed, “A fine breed from the coast. Don’t you think Temid?”

“Aye, temperamental, though. Better suited for open war than chasing around the city after each others’ wives!”

They all laughed at that.

“Well Mr. Lustical, Mr. Fandelving, I shall distain their society, not that they would keep company with a tradesman’s lad. Where should I avoid them?”

“The Loadstar. Up Quigley.”

_____________-------_____________

Unusually for Nag Kath, he was trying to think of several things at the same time. That had not gone well before so he took them in their turn. He looked forward to seeing Tal again, ever so much. But he may have caused her lasting pain. Healers in the style of the old woman were so rare. A few Elves could pull ailments from their patients and dispel them as easily as he passed the strong barley malt. But men suffered and women more. Gandalf had explained as much with the Aleg’s little daughter.

Nag Kath remembered feeling unsteady after pulling her fever away. That was why the old woman was so upset. Tal could have had a life and family before her calling was revealed. A woman with child was in grave danger. Now it was too late if she embraced the touch.

And then there were the Revanthars, led by the Mayor’s arrogant son. A brave man by accounts, but a fool. And a fool could get far more men killed than a coward. Well, if they were as hapless as the two gents in the pub said, they would show their hands soon enough.

Both women were sitting on the porch. Mrs. Stilleth was rocking and knitting a garment that had not taken shape. Tal had her feet curled under her as she gazed at the Evenstar. She had a faint smile. Both noticed him at the same time. He was a big man but made little noise when he climbed the steps and invited himself to the last chair.

Tal said softly, “I knew you would come.”

The old lady was counting stitches and looked at him after she had pinched the row on her needle. “I wasn’t so sure! You made rather bold with the poor girl!” 

Nag Kath smiled at Tal with his eyes, “I did indeed. Tell me of your conversation.”

Tal only had the first syllable out when Mrs. Skilleth announced, “She knew. She knew all along! I’ve been wrong twice in one day and I don’t like that!” 

Tal continued, “I have always known I was different. That is probably why we had to move so often. Mother could heal too. Our cuts and chills were always well before the other children’s. I just didn’t know why.”

Someone needed to say something. Mrs. Skilleth had just started another row so it was up to the youngsters. Nag Kath took the lead, “I also have healing skills …”

The old lady was still listening and rasped, “You’re an Elf! That’s nothing to your kind!”

“Part Elf.” No one took the bait. “And part orc and part wizard. The Queen thinks I am Sauron himself waiting to beset free peoples again. Take your pick. Did you tell Tal my age?”

“Haven’t gotten to it.”

Tal’s face turned white. Had she joined with an ancient being who walked the earth when her own kind were unimagined? She knew her legends.

“Two weeks ago was my third birthday.” With a fair grin, “It was a modest celebration.”

“Mrs. Skilleth never looked up from her work. She had to turn a heel or elbow so this was not the time to waste what vision she had on these two. “So, you are a monster. What are your plans for my poor girl?”

The poor girl defended herself, “We haven’t gotten to plans. We met at a dance last night. My year was over. I brought him here and I knew what to do with him.” She smiled demurely at the changeling, “I hope you didn’t mind overmuch, Mr. Kath. You smelled so nice.”

“Just Nag Kath.”

“Well then, what are both of you going to do?!” snapped the old lady.

The Elf considered that, “I fear I have no better answer than Tal, Mrs. Skilleth” who had suggested no endearing diminutive for herself. “I was cast out of Minas Tirith by the King, mostly so the Queen wouldn’t kill me. I traveled to live with Gandalf, Mithrandir as you know him, for seven months. He didn’t kill me either but instead told me to visit the lands of ancient Elves now long dead or blended into other lines. And he told me to heal, because there is so much healing needed in this land. 

“I will do as he said.” He looked at Tal wistfully, “But there was no plan to take anyone else into harm’s way. And now I have met her and am bound to her on short acquaintance. I fear I am at a loss for solutions.”

The old crone put her knitting down. Nag Kath thought she must do it to occupy herself. They were discussing matters of more moment than baby socks. “That was a good answer, young man. What about you my dear?”

“I will both heal and love. And I will take what the world will deal.”

“I will have to teach you, else you’ll pull a sickness out that will kill you instead. You accept this as your fate?”

“My destiny, Mrs. Skilleth.”

“Haven’t both of you got anything better to do?” Nag Kath and Tal rose without any idea why. “Nag Kath, I will probably never see you again. You are an honorable young man. Much too good looking for the women of Dunland” she cackled, “but you’ll be gone soon. I wish you well. Gandalf was right. Heal this land. Heal as many hurts as you can because you can.

“Tal, come see me soon. You have much to learn.”

_____________-------_____________

The tall couple wandered wordlessly back towards the high-street. The sun was setting. They wanted to be alone. She roomed with three other women after her late husband’s family claimed their home. Tal took him in hand to a small restaurant a block west of Thomald. 

Not all in Trum Dreng drank alcohol. The proprietor at the Wending was one such. They served plain fare with tea. Though he looked local, there were some who thought the owner might have foreign blood for he seemed to find spices and flavorings that made his dishes more interesting than up or down the street.

Tal called to the kitchen, “Hello Mrs. Lembert. I’m famished.”

“Then you came to the right place. Hendrith has some lamb stew left.”

Nag Kath had already eaten which made it easier to ask for just tea. The cheerful Mrs. Lembert said, “I’ll be back in no time, dear.”

At the Wending you sat where you liked. They took a table in the back. It was getting later than most folks stayed out now that the festival was past. Mrs. Lembert returned with a bowl of stew and two mugs. There being nothing else the young couple needed, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Tal said softly, “Whatever will I do with you, Nag Kath? ... Nag Kath?!” For such a personal discussion, he was utterly distracted. Well of all the …

He whispered, “Stay here. Do not move. I must see to something. I am afraid I have attracted unwanted attention. I mean it, stay right here!”

Tal had never seen anyone move so fast. All she heard was the back door click. Two minutes later, he returned the same way he left.

She said thinly, “You didn’t keep going!”

Nag Kath had not learned the subtlety of gentle taunting from the fair sex. “No, you are here.”

Three years old, and only just that! Had she had been indiscreet with a mere lad? “What was that about?”

“I am being followed, but not very well. What do you know of the Revanthars?”

“Rich boys. Some nasty, some dull, some do what they’re told. The mayor’s son is their leader. Why?”

“They seem to have taken issue with me. Now I fear for your friend.”

Talereth recalled, “Mrs. Skilleth helped one with an arrow infection some time back. I think she would have let him die but she is poorer than she’ll admit.”

“Do these lads know you?”

“They have made … suggestions. Some would be a fair catch but I don’t think they stick. They don’t know who I am, no.”

“Then enjoy your stew. Just follow my direction when we leave.”

“I will not be told what …” 

Nag Kath put his finger to her lips. “You must trust me.”

She would trust him. Tal had burning questions but hadn’t eaten since last night. Ransacking Mrs. Skilleth’s lean larder yielded crumbs so she ate every bite of her stew and wiped the bowl with the last piece of bread. 

Hand in hand, they left the Wending and walked slowly up Thomald, hugging the building fronts. A block up, one storefront projected further into the street than next. An instant after passing that, Tal found herself in Nag Kath’s arms in the alley behind the stores fully a building north of where they were walking She tried to squeal but he had his hand over her mouth. He put her down gently whispering, “This way.”

They slipped in the Fair Maid kitchen and up the stairs to the top floor. By all accounts, old Mr. Levanthar would have approved. 

“What are you?” Not asked in fear, just wonder.

“When I learn, I will tell you.” He kissed her. He kept kissing her.

At dawn, he woke and looked out his balcony window to the street below. There was nobody in sight but the fool left his horse tied to a post one door down. Nag Kath climbed back in bed with Tal and caressed her.

“Ummmm.” Her eyes opened. The Elf wondered if old Mrs. Skilleth had directed her to laced tea-mugs the first night to keep her close. 

“What are we to do, you and I?” he asked tenderly.

“You have to go and I have to stay.” A solution Lentaraes would like. “At a different time it might be other than that, but we must both find ourselves.”

The Elf offered practical advice, “You needn’t stay here, you know. Go to Minas Tirith. They are more modern there.”

“I will fly there after breakfast.”

“My but you have a saucy tongue.”

She showed him. Half a bell later, “Fly or walk, that’s a long way for a poor girl.”

He jerked up on his elbow. She remembered thinking; this could not possibly be the grin of an Elf or orc or dark lord of any sort.


	24. The Charge of the Revanthars

**_Chapter 24_ **

**_The Charge of the Revanthars_ **

“I tell you, Laster, the dougsh visited the old healer. Sat there talking with her and a young woman. Not hard to look at, the other. The hag seemed quite stern with him. He was not there for herbs.”

Laster Cathad had to think about this. He knew of the old woman. She healed one of his comrades. But the man had drifted away from his loyal group so he owed no quarter to someone who might be a witch. “Tell our men to prepare. DO NOT let him out of your sight. It is time to make ourselves known.”

It all depended on timing. 

He told Tal his plan. It was absurd, of course. Nag Kath took her downstairs and through the kitchen to the alley. She would have to walk from here. He went back into the inn and had a hearty breakfast. Then he went out the kitchen to the stable. “Hello, Mr. Amandrol. I need a favor.”

From there he walked so he could not be followed southwest not far from the Meados compound. An hour later, it was time to get his pants and boots ... boots first. His new friends did not know anything about them. The door was unlocked. “Good day sir. Are you here?”

“Where else would I be? Oh, it’s you. Good. Step inside.” 

On a small table next to where he sat the last time were a pair of boots and a pair of shoes. He picked up the boots first to admire them and started to sit down.

“Not that chair. The rung’s still loose.” On the good chair he unlaced his boots and tried on the new ones. They were stiff. He had never worn new footwear. The old man knew what he was thinking, “They will loosen-up with wear. Rub the outsides with tallow to keep them supple. It will take me a day for those.” pointing at the boots Nag Kath just removed.

“My schedule has changed and I must leave today. Why don’t I just take the new soles and attend to that further along?”

“Fine by me. You’re paid up.”

“Where is the Loadstar?”

The cobbler put the far monocle in his eye and asked softly, “Now what would you be wanting there?”

“They have taken issue with me.”

Even a hard look through his monocle couldn’t find why the blonde man would be interested in that troll cave. “You’re at the Maid … only half a block up then make a right and down that lane to an intersection. It is a large building with the bar in back where the Mayor’s spawn holds court.” 

“Would it be fair to say you don’t supply boots to the Revanthars?”

“It would be fair to say.”

Nag Kath wore his new boots and put the shoes and his old boots in a sack. His next stop was the tailors. The lady of the house opened the door and invited him in. Tea was served immediately. They thought highly of his praise for their native blend.

“Ah, Mr. Kath. I was just about to have Deloush deliver your goods. You have saved him a trip.”

“Splendid, Mr. Juegesh. Now, could I ask you to translate something into Khandian for an old friend?”

There were only a few errands left. It was time to be noticed. Nag Kath went back to the Fair Maid, inspecting some of the alleys between buildings along the way before slipping in the kitchen. Only pausing for a mug of cold tea, he left through the front door. 

After being burned the night before, his new friend would be vigilant. Good. Nag Kath kept in plain sight two blocks down Thomald and then ducked obviously into the gap between the Charter Company and Mama’s Linens. Only this time, he was still there. The little man cautiously rounded the corner and was instantly hoisted to eye level by the meanest Elf he had ever seen. The only Elf too, but this was no time to compare. “What’s your name?”

“Tem?”

“That’s not it or you’re not sure?”

“Temolan Neth Falamn. Folks call me Tem.”

“Sweet dreams, Tem.”

Nag Kath headed left two blocks on a side street until he saw the right lad and called him over. He might be twelve, almost old enough to be apprenticed. This was not the poorest district but still a place where a boy his age should appreciate the value of money. A couple groats secured his cooperation. The lad insisted on staying in the open. Fancy gentlemen flashing coin had left here with boys who were never seen again.

Elf and lad trudged back up the street parallel to Thomald then turned left to the square. Past the Fair Maid, they stopped on the corner leading to the Loadstar. Nag Kath said, “The two was just to start.” He produced a silver, two month’s wages for the boy’s father, and laid it in his palm. “Now listen carefully.”

Half an hour later, the youngster walked into the Loadstar and asked for Mr. Cathad. The barkeep pointed him to the room where said young Cathad and six of his bucks were sipping their ales slowly, keeping their wits sharp.

The lad was not naturally timid but the tall stranger with cash said to seem so. “Are you Mr. Cathad?” as if he didn’t know.

“That’s me. What do you want boy?”

The lad stammered, “I’ve got a message from Tem. Gave me two groats too.”

“And what does Tem have to say?”

“He said he couldn’t come because he is with your friend. Said the Elf was planning fell sorceries with a witch to spoil the grain stores. Some Lendings were involved … sorry, I didn’t get that part. Said you should be there with the Evenstar.”

Laster Cathad grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt, “Why should I believe you?”

The boy opened his hand. In his palm was Tem’s ring. “He’ll give you the sign.”

Laster Cathad, son and heir, leader of the Revanthars who would cleanse this district on their way to bigger things, produced a five-groat coin of his own. The lad thought the Mayor’s boy could have done better than a fiver as he skipped to the rag man’s. The tall stranger told him to get new clothes and a haircut that very day.

_____________-------_____________

Laster Cathad showed unusual discipline. A leader of men should be patient. All eleven remaining Revanthars slowly rode around the eastern side of Trum Dreng until they reached the side street leading to the loading dock of the granary. This was a tight area of town dating to days when lanes could only accommodate a small cart. When he ran things, Lord Cathad would remedy that. In the darkness behind a rooming house they waited for Tem’s signal. 

The men were well fitted; boots and saddles polished. Their fine mounts were in fine trim but a little touchy. After ten minutes, some started snorting and pawing the dirt. Just then, a blinding flash silhouetted the granary from the Thomald side followed by the thunder of trolls. Laster Cathad had been born for this. It was time to show his quality. No more Mayor’s boy. He had men at his call and a destiny! This wasn’t Tem’s signal. This must be the foul sorcery of enemies he would settle.

“Swords! Charge!”

The horses had to run single-file through the narrow lane. The larger entrance to the loading area on Thomald was still blocked by the temporary viewing stand for the Progress. Black smoke filled the space which was now in full darkness. 

Where the devil were the lanterns!

Nag Kath watched them from the roof of Elath’s Farm and Feed. When all eleven were choking and swearing, he raised his face to the moon and howled like a pack of tsitsi warags at the top of his voice.

The effect was instant. Horses reared and bolted in all directions trying to leave this horrible place. Five or six riders were thrown instantly. Cathad landed on one leg with a sharp snap. The rest of the Revanthars were scraped off on walls and posts or flung into trash some fool piled in the alleys.

His work done, Nag Kath jumped off the building and trotted south. None of the townsfolk opened their doors. He wondered if Chanderie and Family would sell out of underpants again. Making the plan perfect; a terrified mare careered straight at him. He caught her reins and gentled her as only an Elf can. Hopping on, they made for the south gate, the only one manned after dark. From there the horse picked her way north until the ground became uncertain. Nag Kath climbed down and waited until dawn. 

Half an hour after first light, they rode to a country crossroads. Tal and Mrs. Skilleth were making their breakfast in his new frying pan. Captain Marchand was already eating his. The Captain’s horse, Vandery and A’mash were grazing together in a flat just beyond.

The Captain shouted through his eggs, “We could see it from here!”

Nag Kath dismounted and looked over his shoulder. The smoke had cleared. It took all of the match powder Gandalf gave him. Walking towards the Captain and ladies he said, “I’m afraid the Mayor’s son will be walking slowly for a while.”

Captain Marchand chortled heartily, “I shouldn’t worry. There may be an opening for lamplighter soon.”

Drawing closer Nag Kath joked, “This is a hard town to buy boots!”

They shook hands as old friends. The Captain glanced at the watching women and said more seriously, “I think we both got what we wanted.”

“Rogad too?”

So he knew about that. “Especially Rogad.” The Captain looked over his shoulder and said, “At the speed you’ll travel, you’ll make the river tomorrow afternoon. The barge chief’s name is Arcadlan. No need to mention me but you will find him …” searching for the perfect word, “… accommodating.” 

“And barges out the Grayflood?” 

“The river is low enough for those and the ferry. You might have to wait a few days, but I don’t think anyone from the Northpass Brigade will follow.”

“You were right Captain, we did meet again.”

The next evening, Nag Kath, the women and his three animals arrived on the banks of the Dunsenorn. Not as important a river as it would become, it flowed from Lich Bluffs through the Mournshaws and into the Greyflood. They had to stay three days for a westbound barge that would take the women to a ship and then to Gondor proper. 

Nag Kath could have taken the ferry across the river anytime he wanted, but he and Tal found things to do while waiting.


	25. Remnants

**_Chapter 25_ **

**_Remnants_ **

**Helpful maps are Eregion, Tharbad, Greyflood Basin.[https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8 ](https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8)**

Nag Kath stood at the water’s edge to watch the barge make the bend. Then he walked to a grassy knob above the log scars and sat. He had never felt like this. He was in pain. No one explained this. In Edoras there was pain and also redemption. Not now.

On the way here he thought Tal might stay with him but by the time they reached the barge camp, her mind was set. In the end, the safest place for the women was the most dangerous for him. He kept asking Tal to stay until she broke down and begged him not to mention it again. They would talk about other things in the time they had. They also took walks or rides out of sight of the camp to be alone. Bless her heart; Mrs. Skilleth kept her peace about their union. She had something to say about everything else, including the sharp side of her tongue with leering bargemen wondering aloud about the couple’s absences. She even managed to sew the new soles on his boots. On the morning of the fourth day, the women loaded their modest possessions on a sturdy barge and waved goodbye. 

He was sad. So this is what that meant, why there were so many songs about loss. And he wondered about children. He liked children. He and Tal had been close for a full week and he knew even one joining could produce a child. Would she have a baby? Would he ever know? 

Nag Kath’s pain was derived wholly from the world of men. It would be years before he discovered the vast differences between how men and Elves viewed bringing new life into the world. For Elves, a child was a communion. Rare fertility was anticipated knowing that acceptance meant a commitment lasting thousands of years. The babe was not only a child of the parents; he or she was also of the community. Their upbringing and understanding of their world was as important as conception.

In the brief, uncertain world of men, the fleeting confluence of opportunity, fertility and attraction was seized whenever it happened. Men had fields to plow and loads to lift and aches to tend when their lifetime of labor wore them down. Joining was inexpensive pleasure when the sun set. Babies born to parents paired by local custom fared better than others, but in the scantly populated world they inherited, all children had value. High or low, love depended on the people in their lives. Communities took care of them as well as they could and grandparents were honored for their guidance.

This was the learned pain of men but still a bit orcish with the inexperience of a child – a miserable combination for affairs of the heart. The hatred had been largely purged but orcs are instinctively practical. Children want what they cannot have until they are taught otherwise. Some become bitter. Some are tempered with acceptance.

Marchand was right about Arcadlan the barge chief. The burly waterman explained what to expect, the time it would take and what a reasonable charge would be up the Anduin to Osgiliath. He also said Tal and Mrs. Skilleth could use his name with several captains who would keep an eye on them. Two women alone on such a trip were rare. Nag Kath would have worried except he was fairly sure old Mrs. Skilleth had more than healing spells in her quiver. Arcadlan knew the spirited mare would bring a good price with his partners at the Greyflood, enough to cover the women’s passage to the sea and then some. Alas, the distinctive Revanthar saddle and tack was accidentally dropped in the river. 

The barge chief was a hearty man with a good sense of humor but was respected by the twenty-two men, give or take, who worked the river. They paid well here and expected it to be earned. He was also a smart man and quickly decided these were not idle travelers. The old woman did not have a local accent but her daughter did. And the Elf, if that was what he was, did not act like an Elf. Elves were never alone. The man said he was part Elf, but not which part. Most curious; the Elf, Arcadlan and his acquaintance Captain Marchand all wore the same make of boots. So Nag Kath would have spent time in Trum Dreng. It was none of his business, but he could tell the young couple’s pain and, like the old lady, stared daggers at anyone who snickered.

The crew was part of a timber operation. Associates upriver in Maedos lands cut pine and fir trees along the banks of the Dusenorn to float downstream. This was the point where the river became relatively calm. That was good because larger barges could be built and floated more safely to the big river. It was bad because without the momentum of the current, logs tended to stick in the banks. One of the main jobs here was to herd them into booms that would be guided downriver by barges. 

To work both sides, a ferry had been constructed with a horse winch on the south bank to pull the ferry barge across, much like the iron bucket in Orthanc. A pole sunk on the north bank with a greased capstan reduced friction. The winch had a pawl just like in Orthanc so runaway logs or barges snagging the line would not kill the horse. At dark the line was left loose on floats to catch logs for the morning boom.

Men labored from sunup to sundown. Since logs coming from upstream were sporadic, these fellows also made barges and sawed trees into planks. They hated sawing but they liked eating more. Several deep pits were dug just above the waterline and crossed with squared timbers. Logs were dragged by horses lengthwise and sawed with a man walking the log and another in the pit pulling the other end of a two-handled blade. New men got the pit.

Arcadlan told Nag Kath he could take the ferry any morning the men went over, or any time he wanted thanks to that fine horse, but the Elf wanted to stay with the women, the girl in particular. Who wouldn’t? Some of the bargemen were envious but the pretty Elf also practiced combat drills with that Rohan tooth-picker to while the time and no one wanted to be on the sharp end of it. 

A new barge was ready on the third evening. The women boarded with their modest bags the next morning and watched the camp fade with Nag Kath standing at the water. Arcadlan did not know they had five Florins sewn into their skirts and another Florin in nippers and silvers for spending money to reach the White City. The ladies were embarrassed when he gave them so much. He insisted. It would not go as far in Gondor as it did here but it was still enough to live comfortably for quite a while.

As the shadows grew long, Arcadlan sat next to the Elf who hadn’t moved for hours. Usually when he wandered off by himself he took his pad to draw on. This time, he just sat there. As a younger man, Arcadlan he had to leave a sweetheart behind so he knew how the blonde whatever-he-was felt. Tomorrow it would be time to leave. The barge chief said, “Now, are you sure you want to go north? A man is all alone out there.”

“Nag Kath replied simply in his strange accent, “Yes, everything I need to do is there.” He had a pleasing voice, the sort women might find appealing. Arcadlan knew a few Elves and they did not sound like this one. There had been half-Elven Elves. Maybe Nag Kath was a half-Elven man. Both of them rose and walked back to the river. The ferry was returning for the evening meal.

_____________-------_____________

Men would have swum back from the far bank rather than stay there in the dark. North of the Dunsenorn was a graveyard. To the east were mass burial pits of Angmar mercenaries and Dunlending hordes. Anyone you asked would tell you their spirits were angrily awaiting resurrection by the next dark lord to wreak their revenge on living men. There was always another dark lord.

Directly across the river were the Mournshaws. 

Other than having been one, Nag Kath knew little of men’s terrors. They learned those fears in swaddling clothes. He had seen undead ghosts pass through the walls of his dungeon so he doubted a river would stop them, but the sawyers clung to that prayer and he did not gainsay them.

There was not much to the trip. The ferry was for logs, not travelers. Both animals were tied from either side to keep them from slipping overboard if they fell. Vandery never relaxed. A’mash was alert but as long as the Elf was in sight, he stayed calm. Nag Kath spent most of the twenty-minute crossing looking over the bow at huge trout swimming east. When the nose eased into the mud, men wistfully wished him well and set about their work.

South Dunland was crowded compared to here. The North/South road was a goat-track. Nag Kath could see it had been graded for wagons and troops long ago but now it was only visible because the grass was a little browner. Though hopeless for wheeled traffic, it was excellent for hooves. They made good time on the flat, featureless terrain. Trees were rare. There were no streams large enough to fish but the water was sweet. Berries had come into season along with greens Nag Kath could eat. The vista teemed with game since there were no men hunting. Some creatures he had not seen before included huge deer who kept their distance. If Nag Kath ate flesh, he would not lack for it.

Three hours after making the bank he saw a large arch off to the right. The two pillars were stone statues of stern, armored men staring north. Nag Kath supposed them Numenorean kings since that was all they carved. The kings seemed lonely. Perhaps they looked home in regret. 

They stopped for the night without having seen a soul. Nag Kath hobbled Vandery near some tasty weeds. A’mash knew better than to wander. With so few trees, the changeling had to search for enough wood to make a small fire. A warm mug of tea and a few bites of mock-Elvish waybread made for a pleasant end of the day watching the Evenstar.

Nights in the wild were dull for him. After Gandalf's purge, he usually only needed a few hours of Elvish rest. He wished he could see well enough to sketch but there was only the barest crescent moon tonight.

As he saddled and packed at dawn, Nag Kath felt crackling in the air, as though a thunderstorm was coming. The sky was blue with a few fluffy clouds so he paid it no heed. His copy of Saruman’s map was outdated for town names but the lay of the land was accurate. They would reach a forest by mid-afternoon. Sometimes he trotted over to high points for perspective but only saw more of the same. 

On schedule they came to a blanket of trees. Four tiny houses nestled along the bank of a small brook leading from the woods. There wasn’t a soul here. He saw no bodies or burning or signs of fighting. These people just left. Nag Kath stashed the bags in the house with the best roof and looked back at their road. There were straight borders to some of the fields, memories of being plowed. Beyond the last house was a paddock about ten paces square. It was rickety but still intact and full of grass. He put the horse and mule in and shut the latch.

After a week of travel and barge-camp he smelled ready for a bath with his new soap! It was just what he needed before clean new clothes. He thought he could get used to that. Refreshed, it was still earlier than he usually made camp but this was a logical stopping-place so he gathered sticks to make hot tea in a well-used fire circle. As the flames rose he felt the crackling again, like the spark of touching someone’s skin in winter.

Vandery felt it and started to snort. When Nag Kath turned to look, A’mash was fidgeting too. His ears popped like they would when climbing in the mountains. From nowhere, a heavy mist formed to the east aided by no wind or rain.

Something was coming.

His beasts neighed or brayed nervously looking for escape. A few seconds after that, they heard the howls. No, not howls like wolves or warags. It was baying, dogs on the hunt. Eight huge wolfhounds, twice the size gentlemen keep for sport, poured out of the mist and surrounded Nag Kath. They came no closer than ten paces, neither snarling nor barking. But they never took their eyes from him. Vandery and A’mash were strangely calm. The Elf had to rely on his hearing for that because he kept his eyes trained on the hole in the mist the hounds had opened.

Now he heard hooves, one heavy horse. Through the same gap in the fog charged a rider who must stand at least ten feet-tall on a roan horse sized to fit. The steed reared and came to rest. In a rumble lower than the voice of any man, the creature barked a short sentence in an ancient language.

Nag Kath replied, “I am sorry my lord. I only speak the common tongue, and that, badly.”

The rider considered that a moment and swung down from his horse after taking a hunting axe from its strap. “I asked; who hunts my land without leave?”

“I am Nag Kath, thought I do not come to hunt.”

As the figure walked closer Nag Kath could see he was armored head-to-toe for tournament combat, not battle. He wore a helm crowned with huge antlers making him even more fearsome. Nag Kath could not tell if he wore a mask. His eyes shone bright white but shed no light. Movements were not cumbersome, despite the size. The creature stopped ten feet away and growled, “Any who wake my hounds are here to hunt … or ...,” with menace, “… be hunted.”

Nag Kath knew he could not defeat the giant in combat even if his sword wasn’t in the hut. And his short bursts of speed could never outrun tireless immortal hounds. So he stooped to the most treacherous ploy imaginable; good manners. “I was just making tea, my Lord. May I offer you some?”

“TEA?! I am the Wild Huntsman, Maia to Oromë the Great Huntsman! I hunt and slay fell beasts and dark servants yet you offer me TEA?! Do you not know me boy?”

“I confess I am young and unversed in noble lore.”

The Wild Huntsman looked at his dogs and then was lost in thought for a moment. Nag Kath needed to do some thinking of his own, and quickly. Gandalf once told him the great Bilbo played riddle-games for mortal stakes with a dragon and some sort of wraith. The questions and answers didn’t matter as much as talking long enough to find an escape.

The Huntsman spoke, “You are not a man. My dogs do not wake for men. I must treat with wretched rangers occasionally. Hounds do not hunt them. I would have called you Elf, but you know nothing at all! The pack brought me to you and yet they do not rend or hold you for my stroke. What are you … and why should I not slay you?!”

Nag Kath could not ask grace to consider his plea more carefully so chose three guidelines: first; this creature was older than the ages. He would measure time in events, not years. Nag Kath would speak the truth in the broadest terms. Second; he would not beg for his life or offer excuses for trespassing. The Wild Huntsman had heard those for thousands of years, probably to little avail. And third; he said he was Maia to Oromë. Oromë must be one of the Valar-gods whose name Gandalf failed to pound into his head. The Maiar were their servants. Well, he was on a first-name basis with a couple Maia himself so he would drop their names as shamelessly as the oiliest second-level bead-peddler.

“Lord Huntsman, I was Uruk-hai to Saruman of Many Colors.” A hound behind him growled. “When Sauron was destroyed, I became as you see.” Nag Kath was skating on thin ice here. Those two were Maiar as well and traitors to Oromë’s house. “I was remanded to Mithrandir’s charge and he discovered I can heal the hurts of men so Mithrandir and Radagast (bless him, this was a good cause) ordered me to care for the world of men until I proved my honor.”

The Huntsman growled, “That still doesn’t say why I shouldn’t take your head, changeling, lowly thought it is!”

That was it! That was the opening. The Huntsman was bored! He may be one of the most powerful and ancient creatures on earth but he was still in Dunland. Nag Kath had done some traveling and this was the most benighted land he had yet seen. The dark powers had been concentrating their trolls and orcs near Rohan, Gondor and Dale for centuries, only conscripting the hapless Dunlendings for hopeless frontal assaults. Nag Kath hoped the Huntsman didn’t have to eat the fell beasts. If he did, the poor wretch hadn’t bagged so much as a scabby cave goblin for the pot since the fall of Barad Dûr.

“I cannot say, my lord. Perhaps the wizards sent me here for your judgment.”

“I doubt that. We have not spoken in an age.”

It was time to set the hook. “The wizards will be leaving Middle-Earth now that their labors are complete. They know they will not be here to see if I fulfill my charge. They must also have known your hounds would feel even the shadow of my former self and bring me to your verdict.”

Nag Kath sensed a hint of sadness in the Huntsman now that his developing brain could understand his own sadness. The Huntsman said ruefully, “Nay. My guests and I would slay dozens of fell creatures and then repair to my hall to feast on deer and boar and fowl with the finest ales. My dogs would not have wakened for such as you.”

The Elf’s fate hinged on his reply, “Then they must have sent me to help you.”

The figure seemed to grow even taller. He hefted his axe with both hands at shoulder level, “You are too bold, little changeling! I am the Wild Huntsman. Why should I treat with an errand-boy for weak old wizards; meddling and poking and conjuring?! Tell me now; ere I separate your empty head from your shoulders!”

Nag Kath spoke softly; a trick of Quastille’s when it was time to secure the commission, “Radagast must serve a while longer. His care is for the birds and beasts and forests that will take several lives of men to repair … the blink of an eye in your measure, My Lord. Mithrandir will be welcomed in Valinor very soon. And when he is, will that not remind all of the Valar that their noble servants deserve noble labors?

“And yes, I know little. But I have courage and I speak truth. I go forth to heal hurts big and small, though some bring me harm. And if for that my head still offends, take it now and be done.”

For an agonizing minute, the Huntsman did not move. His face betrayed nothing. The dogs and steed were still. Nag Kath had forgotten about his own mounts. Very slowly, the Huntsman lowered head of his axe to the ground and let go the shaft. He reminded Nag Kath of the great kings holding the arch, frozen in stone, staring home. They had been forgotten too.

The figure removed his helmet. He did have a face, hardened and chiseled but not a monster. It was the face of one who had seen so much. The Huntsman walked directly up to Nag Kath – towering over him as the Elf did the Dwarves. “You are right, little changeling. My pride has kept me here too long. I will seek the counsel of those still willing to give it.” An afterthought, with the hint of a smile; “The wizards did not send you, did they?”

Nag Kath managed a hint of a smile too, “Not that they told me, noble Lord.” 

The Huntsman paused, “And what should I do for you? You showed the courage of the greatest hunters standing naked and alone. What would you ask of me for your pains?”

“I need nothing I do not have.”

The Huntsman removed his right glove and placed his hand on Nag Kath’s shoulder. “Take this, for my sake Elf-Child. For one time, and one time only, it will light your way at greatest need.”

The great hunter’s eyes changed from white to all the colors of the rainbow in a flash. Then everything went black.

Nag Kath woke on his back exactly where he had been standing. It was morning. The ground was dry but he had been rained on at least once. His lips were parched. He forced himself to his feet as he had a hundred times before and slowly straightened rebellious joints and muscles. Finally cricking his neck around in a circle, he surveyed the land.

A’mash and Vandery were in a field a hundred paces back towards the river. Nag Kath walked gingerly to the paddock. Two rails were kicked out. Every blade of grass had been eaten to the roots. The animals looked at him but went back to their weeds so he stretched and bent while trudging to his packs in the hut. They were dry. Pulling a match from a backpack pocket, he made his way to the fire circle.

It was time for that mug of tea.

______________--------______________

It was before lunch with plenty of time to travel but Nag Kath stayed at the abandoned village for the rest of the day. A’mash and Vandery seemed fine. The horse’s hoof had healed noticeably. Nag Kath was not hungry this time but forced himself to eat more waybread and berries. 

Every few hours, he would see the flash of colors from the Huntsman. It was not painful and he questioned if the Maia had placed a tool in his mind or just left a powerful memory. With idle time, Nag Kath wondered if these Maiar came in colors. Saruman had been the White until he became of many colors. Gandalf was White now but had been Gray … a promotion? Radagast was Brown. There were other Maiar. Was it a gift? Was it a test? Had he been colored? Time would tell.

The next day they made their way into the forest. It was much different than the Bonewales. The trees were of the sort that lost their leaves in the autumn – very stout and very old. The branches hung down like a father stooping to lift a child. And unlike the Bonewales, there was undergrowth of ferns, mosses and mushrooms. None of it looked appetizing so he ate from his pack and shared oats with the animals.

It seemed that these trees could have more easily been cut on this end of the forest and tossed into the Dusenorn than far to the east. Maybe they were too hard, good for fine craftsman but difficult to work for beams and boards. They might also be the sort of trees that had strong opinions about men with axes. 

By nightfall they reached an established campsite that had been cleared with a fire ring and thoughtfully limbed logs as benches. Nag Kath started a fire for tea, oats and a fish he pulled from the stream on his idle day. The map showed them breaking clear of this forest about lunchtime and starting a slow descent towards Tharbad. That would be the longest stretch on his trip without expecting at least the vestige of a town.

This was about the time Nag Kath stopped measuring time in days. He still lived them in order, but for the next four days, nothing changed in his life. At the end of fourth day, they reached a small farming settlement on a sizeable creek leading to the Greyflood. In all that time, he saw no one on the road and only one hunter on the horizon. There were no rooms here so he spread his bedroll under the stars.

Rest did not come. After a day of calm, he was revisited by the Huntsman’s colors and thoughts of Tal. Would she always stay with him? A pocket in the pack had three pictures of her. Two were posed. He tossed those in the fire. The other was drawn without her knowing, slightly in profile, looking at the river with her enigmatic smile. He kept that. It still made him sad but there was something unknown that compensated. He felt very lonely. Old men said such things would pass. He would never be old.

Late the next morning they could see the ruins of Tharbad. The ground to either side became soggy with tall reeds sporting heads like bread sticks. Queer birds flew about or walked on tall legs looking for unwary prey. 

Tharbad must have been impressive until it was brought low. And this was not a merciful death in war. Great waters rose and leveled most of what stood. Wind and weather was chipping the rest to sand. He looked at walls and columns still standing and realized modern men, lesser men by learned accounts, could never build these again. Elves founded the city followed by Numenoreans who lived many lives of Fourth Age humans. They could not abide imperfection for hundreds of years so they took what they felt was a reasonable period to fashion great works. No one today could conceive of undertaking a project that would not be completed in their grandchildren’s time. That also made Nag Kath sad. Was the best behind us? Had the wizards sent him forth in vain?

The walls were long gone but the trio walked in from what would have been the main gate. There were folk about. Most stared secretly but a few looked openly. Children marveled at A’mash’s impressive eyelashes. Despite the desolation, life went on. 

Nag Kath saw a small person standing next to a push-wagon in the distance at what might be a marketplace but for only the one fellow. Was this one of the Halflings who were said to have lived here long ago? He very much wanted to meet one that he hadn’t been ordered to capture. As he got closer, he saw that this was not a Hobbit and his little cart was on fire so he cantered over to warn him.

That was not necessary. It was a meat-pie wagon and he was cooking sizzling food on an old infantry shield hung over a burning square of peat. He was a man, about the size of a Dwarf but misshapen from birth. The carter welcomed in a booming voice, “Good sir! You are just in time for a fresh batch.”

Nag Kath had no interest in fried meat rolls but he did need information so he dropped Vandery’s lead and stood at the cart counter.

The cook pitched, “Singles are a groat or three for two!” That was probably four times what they were worth to someone who would eat them but the Elf was here for news. “Excellent! I’ll take three and tea if you have it.” The man did and gave him a mug along with a leaf holding the greasy pies.

Ignoring the unknown meats he wondered, “Can you tell me the day?”

The little man replied, “Wednesday. Wait, maybe, no Wednesday.”

Doing his sums, Nag Kath had been unconscious six days. He continued, “Thank you. How fares your city?”

“Grand, I’m pleased to say. Oh yes, sir. Barges are floating this way after many years. Tharbad is rising again!”

“Good. Have you lived here long?”

The fellow smiled joyously and walked around the counter. His right leg was shorter than the left so he lifted up and down as he walked powered by massive buttocks. The carter offered a hand wiped on an equally grimy smock and said, “Born and bred! I am Belfalas. Welcome to Tharbad!”

“I am Nag Kath and pleased to meet you. That is a noble name. Do you have kin in the south?”

“Might have once. My parents thought I would die so they named me after an uncle with money. Never saw any of it.” 

“Tell me Belfalas, where might a man find room and board here?”

“If you walk up the trail to the south heights there is an inn called the Foundry. Ain’t never stayed there, but a man could do worse. Those of us below the second water line stay here, if you take my meaning. But that doesn’t matter.” With the same cheerful tone he continued, “Things are grand! People buy my pies and my children will be citizens of proud Gondor! Arnor will be across the river. It is a good feeling, I must say.”

Another emotional boulder fell from the sky. They never landed cleanly. 

Nag Kath was the perfect being. After a humble start, he was beautiful, not poor, had skills beyond mortal imagining and would live forever. And yet he brought his sadness and pessimism here to be shamed by a soul who, to all eyes, should have nothing more to look forward to than hobbling painfully every day to sell his little pies.

It was love. Love was the redemption of sadness. Nag Kath had loved. Love was what kept him from burning the last picture. Love gave free peoples hope when they should succumb to darkness. That was the reason his side lost the war, why they would always lose. Men and Elves and Dwarves fought for what they loved, though it may turn them to anger and hatred. It made them stand when his kind ran. It made them build according to the limitations of their lifespan, but all built because they loved.

Nag Kath took two coins out of his pocket. With sleight of hand he stacked a two-groat copper on top of a similarly sized gold nipper on the counter to look like two tuppence. “Belfalas, thank you for more than I can say. There is something extra for your counsel.”

He walked towards Vandery trying not to cry like a baby. Belfalas stared at the coins and called, “Come see me again!”

Nag Kath took Vandery’s lead and did not look back. He could not bear the gratitude of the little man who had given him so much in exchange for so little.


	26. The Gauntlet

**_Chapter 26_ **

**_The Gauntlet_ **

He would have to consider this epiphany later. Several large fellows near the former gate had nothing better to do than stare and he needed his wits about him. From the meat stand to the top of the hill was only a twenty minute walk.

It must have been a magnificent view before being wiped clean. Tharbad in its glory housed about 20,000 souls inside the gates and thousands more around the perimeter. It was like a smaller version of Osgiliath except for a long island in the middle splitting the water flow in half. The famous bridge pylons were largely standing but the spans had all been swept away. 

The southern third was the oldest and highest point of the city and had quite a few buildings whose foundations survived the highest water mark. This was also the residential area for town burghers. At one point, the river island had most of the docking and commercial buildings but also housed a number of inhabitants. It suffered worse than the south but some of it had been rebuilt modestly. The northwest bank was erased, save occasional chimneys jutting like broken teeth. 

From the main road Nag Kath turned right on Rath Romen to a large stone structure that was built with defense in mind. You had to climb fifteen stairs to reach the only door in front. Windows were well above the street level and louvered for archers. The second story was just as fortified.

He left Vandery and A’mash tied to a wrought iron rail and walked up. It was dark by the door. No one rushed to him so he called for help. His Elf ears heard uneven steps coming up from the basement and a few minutes later a middle-aged and much put-upon woman approached. She looked him up and down but said nothing. He hoped he picked the right building. The sign out front did him no good. Nag Kath wasn’t bashful so he said, “I was told I could get a room and stabling for my animals.”

The woman had not trained at the Fair Maid, “Eight groats a night and two for your beasts, but we don’t feed them. You have to do that yourself.”

He held to his practice of wanting to see a room. She turned and climbed the stairs as though drawing movements from a finite well. The first room at the top was small but clean. He also got a better look at the windows. If there had ever been glass it was long gone. Heavy wooden shutters remained. If you wanted light, you could enjoy the breezes.

He asked, “Do you have any on the river side?”

Grudging steps down the hall and over one brought them to an identical room overlooking the island. He said, “Fine, I’ll take it,” and handed her a tenner. Somewhat unexpectedly she declared, I’ll have a boy bring up your bags and take the animals around back. Check your key downstairs.”

He noticed no cooking smells. It seemed guests were in the same situation as their mounts. As dear as little Mr. Belfalas was, Nag Kath could not bring himself to eat the greasy pies. It was some time before the dinner bell so he took his art satchel downstairs to kill the hours. 

The great room downstairs had all the shutters open facing the river and a row of comfortable chairs pulled close. A man in the garb of a traveling merchant was reading a book near the far end. Reading was uncommon in Dunland. Reading through a pair of half spectacles even more so. The man looked up at him and nodded before going back to his book. Nag Kath took the farthest chair but then moved one over for a better angle of the island. 

This is the place to mention that while he was not a trained military officer, Nag Kath had a good eye for ground. Some of that came from shortly after he started wandering around in Minas Tirith with his sketch pad. He found a bench near the wall on the fifth level with a good view of Osgiliath. It was a ruin too but he drew the long lines remembering Quastille’s admonition to only add detail for a vista where you wanted someone’s eyes to land. 

An officer, a lieutenant he thought, strolled by with his wife and saw the picture take shape. To her boredom, the man stayed almost a bell explaining the siege defenses as they had been in their day. Nag Kath spoke little of the common tongue and was more interested in drawing, but much of the commentary stuck. The picture suffered for the one-sided conversation. His wife seemed mollified when he gave it to her.

To know ground you must know speed. He learned some of that watching the Rohirrim form and part as they moved the wagons along, almost like a flock of starlings. Imagining how long it would take to close on fixed positions helped him with his ambush of the Revanthars. Fortunately, he never used his Uruk-hai training in action. Those who did only used it once.

Nag Kath tried to imagine what the island might have been like but could not divine the use of an installation on the upstream end so he asked the man two chairs over, “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me what the five-sided building was on the west tip?”

The man put a paper bookmark where he was reading and looked at Nag Kath over his half-glasses. “Artillery. Swept away or salvaged now.”

The Elf penciled in a launcher and muttered to himself, “Fire ballista, I should think.” Then he looked up at the reader, “Thank you. I might not have guessed.”

“Say, do you mind if I have a look?”

“Not at all.” Nag Kath moved next to him and handed him the pad.

The man elaborated, “There was a sister here and trebuchet here.”

Nag Kath wondered, “Hard to wind without trolls.”

The man was not expecting that. “Before my time! And only good at night! Under the planks was a winch for a team of horses. Me, I would have put in more ballista.”

About that time the hostess came through and the man said, “Ah, Mrs. Plum. Could you see if there are ales with our names on them?”

Very deferentially she answered, “Certainly, Mr. Morannen. I’ll see to it directly.”

Nag Kath was impressed saying, “I don’t seem to have your charm, Mr. Morannen.” Reaching his hand, “Nag Kath.”

The fellow took the offered hand, “Frand Morannen. People here are slow to make friends. You are a military man?”

“At need. But yes, I have seen service.”

“I should imagine you travel north.”

Usually Nag Kath would not have volunteered his route but highway bandits with spectacles were rare. Some of the worst fighting of the war was just above the Glanduin so learning about his road was the first order of business. He answered, “Yes, I came from Trum Dreng.”

“Nice town. Are you with a party?”

“No, I had thought to join a merchant train well south but they are scarce. They would still have to cross the river. Is that a working ferry stretched along the pylons?”

“Ferry, yes. Working? Depends who is waiting on the other side. It takes stout men onboard to pull and pole it.” Their ale arrived and the two touched mugs before sipping.

Nag Kath’s next comment determined his path. “It reminds me of a smaller Osgiliath except for the center island.”

Morannen apprised the visitor who was looking out the window. “Mr. Kath, it is not my habit to give unasked advice, but you seem a good fellow. The best way to go north is on the far side of the Greyflood, and even there you find brigands. Not much profit upstream, but some merchants go with the militia. I know a man who knows a man. If you are interested, they might be able to use a young warrior like you.”

Nag Kath took another sip of the mild, tan ale. He couldn’t stay here forever. And he had more skills than the trader knew. Licking the foam off his lip he said, “Thank you Mr. Morannen. That might serve well.”

The trader cautioned, “Mind, I am not sure I can find them, when they are going or if they want company on short acquaintance. But I will do what I can.”

They talked about siege defense long enough to finish the brew and Nag Kath returned to his room. As soon as he heard the door click, Franden Morannen, as he was known on this side of the river, dropped his spectacles in his pocket and walked out the back door. Morannen was the operational chief of the Swan Fleet Command and he was quite sure a cavalry company was going upriver.

______________-------_____________

Sergeant Vikkanold could be Sergeant Matelar’s long lost brother. The man was shorter with a deep scar on his lip but they were made in the same mold.

Vikkanold had been told not to seem too enthusiastic to take on the mysterious traveler. His Captain said the blonde was probably a fair hand in a fight but the decision was his. Sergeant Vikkanold arrived at the Foundry late the next morning and asked if Nag Kath would mind stepping outside. The blonde did not so they walked to a stone bench too heavy to be moved by the flood.

The Sergeant was taking a twelve-man cavalry troop across the Greyflood to ride up the northern bank towards the Misty Mountains. They were not going far, just seeing to disturbances. Nag Kath knew the man would not share much but decided this was still his best bet on the next stage of his journey. He did ask the Sergeant if his mule was a problem. It was not, at least, not the Sergeant’s problem. They were leaving tomorrow, early, so he paid Mrs. Plum more coppers and drew a few sketches from the hill. The Boatman restaurant down the street specialized in the huge lustigga fish from the deep river.

The next day, Nag Kath reported to the nearest bridge pylon. The ferry was a smaller version of what floated down the Dusenorn. With men and mounts, it took two trips to get them all to the center and another two on a similar ferry to the north. The first wave there fanned with their bows at the ready. Unlike the Dusenorn barge, men had to haul on the rope themselves or pole along the bottom in the shallows.

Everyone in the troop eyed him cautiously and said little. It was no accident he was here and that was good enough. The Rohan sword drew some gazes too. They gathered on the bank until a man from the first trip emerged from the far forest and waved. It was time to move through what had been the New Gate in better days. From there the ground was very much like he saw on his approach but drier. A’mash was comfortable with the pace and Vandery’s foot was fully healed.

Vikkanold’s troopers traveled differently than the Rohirrim. There was a single van rider and no rear guard not expecting mounted foes. They rode two abreast when possible. Most men carried longbows and quivers across their backs with swords at the hip. They traveled by horseback but fought on foot. With no threats by midday, the soldiers took a breather beside a creek pouring into the great river.

Nag Kath fetched a piece of waybread from his pack when a trooper called over, “That’s not necessary. Here,” tossing him a chunk of fresh loaf. Nag Kath walked over and sat next to the fellow. The man said through a full Dunland, no, Eregion beard, “Name’s Lotho.”

“I am Nag Kath.”

“How far you goin’ Nag Kath?”

“The Mistys. Further than you from what I gather.”

“I should say!” 

Always eager for facts, Nag Kath said, “Though I do not know if I will take the Bruinen or the Hoarwell to the East/West Road. It always seems there is trouble in my path.”

“Ain’t that the truth! 

“And you, Lotho?”

“Not far.”

If they were going to keep talking, it would not be about the company’s objective. That was a fair exchange. He was going in the right direction. Camp at dusk was a familiar place to the riders but they did not talk much to Nag Kath because they did not talk much with each other. Dinner was more bread.

The Sergeant called them to ride after boiled oats the next morning and they continued along the smooth path. They did not see any other travelers, just a few wagon ruts left in mud now hard. The north forest had been several hundred yards to their left for most of the trip but about midday it closed to within arrow range. The van raised his fist. Two men handed their reins to the troopers next to them and stole into the grass with their bows. Thirty minutes later they were back with nothing to report and the column continued.

Three hours later the forest encroached again but not as close. The men warily watched. A dozen arrows that had been shot high to fall steeply rained down on them. No one was hit. The Sergeant barked an order Nag Kath did not recognize and the troopers peeled off in either direction. He followed the soldier closest to him into a small gully. Other than to make sure he wasn’t visible, the man paid him no mind. 

These were veterans. Through a series of whistles and hoots, they established each other’s positions in minutes. Their attackers had not thought this through. They were too far away to be accurate. The oldest trick in the book would have been to hope the feint would make the company run into an ambush. Vikkanold’s force would not do that, which risked getting pinned-down while a larger force closed-in. 

The Sergeant scrambled low to each of the men who were all within fifty paces of each other. He looked at the trooper, “Fellis, you fine?”

“Aye, Sergeant.” 

“How about you, Kath?”

“I am fine.”

The trooper barely spoke, “Sarge, I pulled this out of the ground.” He handed an arrow to Vikkanold. 

The Sergeant nodded his head grimly and murmured, “These are our boys. Kath, can you handle that sword?”

“Yes.”

“You two are the last on the right. If they are coming around, it’ll be here. Hold and the other flank will swing towards the forest.” He was gone.

The young trooper knelt and spread four arrows beside each other in the dirt on his right side and nocked a fifth. His sword was next to them. Nag Kath had already drawn his sword. The two horses and A’mash knew to be silent.

They heard a rush of footsteps towards them. By the time Fellis looked up, half a head was rolling towards his knee. The baby-faced blonde man was crouched and staring upriver with two bodies at his feet. He turned to Fellis and nodded before walking soundlessly further on. Fellis heard the cuts but nothing else. The blonde came back as silently as he left.

The two heard arrows flying and a few sword strokes further up the slight grade to their left. Twenty minutes later the Sergeant returned and whispered to Fellis, “Got three. Rest are in the forest. Seen any this way?”

Fellis nodded first to the top of a head and then towards the motionless civilian hunkered at the trail. Standing, the Sergeant saw two slain rebels. Walking past Nag Kath he found two more. They weren’t just killed. They were hewn. This was fierce work. He came back and said softly to Fellis, “You boys were busy.”

Fellis still had his arrow on the string. He glanced at his sword and whispered, “I never picked it up.” They both looked at Nag Kath. “Sarge, what is that thing?”

Shortly afterwards, the men and horses assembled on the other side of a hillock. One trooper had taken an arrow in the thigh. The wound would not be serious unless the arrow had been poisoned. This was no place to stop so they lifted him on his horse and cantered to a defensible site.

That night Fellis just stared at the fire. His friends had all seen the carnage too. Nag Kath did not say much. Finally, the Sergeant sat next to him. He also said nothing for the longest time. Then, without taking his gaze from the fire he spoke, “Never seen one man do that. If it helps, those raiders did the same to a merchant party last week. Only, they took two days.”

Nag Kath looked at him and asked, “Who were those men?”

“The enemy.” 

_____________-------_____________

A clean wound would have been too much to ask. The arrow had been tainted. Trooper Andros could feel the burning start to move up his leg. Even a brave man can only take so much. By daybreak, Andros was ghostly white

The trooper with the most medical experience took a look and told Vikkanold, “Gangeos.” It couldn’t have been a hand or foot; something they could have amputated. This was already in his body.

Nag Kath murmured to Lothos. “What is it?”

“Gangeos, it’s a roadside weed on the south bank. They boil it down to a gum and coat the arrowhead.” They were within earshot of Andros so Lothos mournfully shook his head to explain the rest. They could wait or ease his passing.

Nag Kath bent to see the wound. The arrowhead had been pulled cleanly but the slice was black and what looked like purple bruising had spread upwards to his groin. 

Gandalf had told Nag Kath to heal, though it put him at risk. After slaying four men whose only crime may have been picking the wrong fight, he would take that risk. Everyone was looking at him. In his Elf Lord voice he commanded three of them to hold the man.

Andros was in the last stage of terror before his body stopped fighting. Nag Kath put his hands to either side of the wound and concentrated. The faint silver glow began through his arms and worked into the man’s thigh. Andros screamed and a trooper slid a leather belt in his mouth. He endured five minutes of agony and then lost consciousness. 

Nag Kath rose slowly and staggered to his bedroll before collapsing in a sitting position. He tried to rise again but couldn’t. Was this the cure Mrs. Skilleth said could kill? He looked at Andros and told anyone listening that the man should rest and to force him to drink water. Maybe Andros would heal, but the company still had the same problem; they couldn’t move him without killing him or they could wait. The rebels they came for were mostly dead so they decided to give their man another day. 

Nag Kath fluttered around his own consciousness like a moth. In less lucid moments, the Huntsman's colors exploded in his mind. When he snapped back, he asked for water. He did not remember the day becoming night. At dawn there was a canteen next to him and he drained it. No one sitting around the breakfast fire heard him until he walked behind them and asked, “How is your man?”

Fellis answered with a wary look, “Still sleeping, but he should have died by dinner yesterday.”

Poison was different than sickness. This was more like Trooper Mendos’ hangover, only far worse. His boots were still on so he walked over to Andros. The man was awake. His friends tried to spoon some oatmeal into him. He could not keep it down but he had managed to stand with help for a few minutes. Nag Kath crouched next to him and said, “You gave your fellows a scare. Drink as much water as you can hold.” He would do the same.

Sergeant Vikkandold walked from behind Nag Kath and said, “We need to get him on his horse and out of here. Will you return with us or continue on?”

The Elf turned to the soldier and asked, “Can I expect more of the same upriver?”

Vikkanold exhaled through his teeth, “They’re out there. But these were the ones we came for. These groups tend to fight each other as much as us so there may be some space between. Can’t help you past that. You don’t want to stay here.”

“I will go on. Good luck Sergeant. 

On his way back to Tharbad, Sergeant Vikkanold decided that if Morannen ever ran across giant blonde swordsmen again, he would take as many as they could spare.

______________--------______________

Nag Kath rode on Vandery at a walk. They would be easier to hit with arrows but that was about as fast as he could manage. After a few hours, the converted poison passed through his flesh and he picked-up his pace. He hoped the animals had grazed well because they were not stopping until dark.

That gave him a lot of time to think. The troopers could not have seen his defense against the rebels but he relived every moment. Nag Kath had been born a soldier, born to do exactly what he just did. He did not like killing. But the hard fact was that people kept trying to kill him. He was unwelcome at the nice places he had been. Hopefully, that would change. That afternoon he decided he had seen as much of this side of the Misty Mountains as he needed for a while. The new plan was to make straight for the High Pass.

A few hours before dinner he came to a small town called Nidada. The usual loiterers stared him as he walked horse and mule up the only street. There was an inn and it was cheap. They had a stable. He didn’t bother to check for bugs before he flopped into the bed and slept until almost dark. 

Dinner was stew so he ate waybread. They did have fair ale but he could not finish his first. He did drain half a gallon of tea. For the first time since he lost count, there were merchants abroad. In retrospect, Morannen did not qualify. He walked out to check on Vandery and A’mash. They were fine but needed brushing. It could wait. 

_____________------____________

In the morning Nag Kath felt fine. His ability to absorb and convert weakness was improving. What was it Mrs. Skilleth said; that it was nothing to his kind? Assuming one survived. Downstairs he said hello to two men of business. They were like the Durgin cousins who walked and led pack animals. With a moment’s grace, they could drop the bags and ride away. Rather than ask them where they were headed and seem a spy for brigands, he volunteered that he was moving upriver hoping it would put them at ease. It did not. They stared at him like he was still an Uruk-hai. Nag Kath looked down and saw four or five large blood splatters on his tunic and trousers. Raising his head back to them he said, “We saw trouble twenty miles downriver.”

One of the merchants countered, “I’ll say! And what was that to you?”

“I traveled with a militia from Tharbad looking for raiders. We found them. I think we took seven but I cannot say how many were left. The soldiers thought few so they are on their way back now.” With thought, “That is a hard road.”

They did not say their path and he did not ask. It did occur to him to change clothes. Five miles north of Nidada he found a stream for a Kath bath and to rinse his tunic and pants. A proper laundress might have removed the stains but in his hands, those clothes would have to be for soldiering.

The end of the day brought him to the town of Filimer. It was where the Greyflood received about a third of its flow from the confluence of the Nen-i-Sul River. Folk here knew water was both friend and foe, depending on the season. Most of the homes and structures were built like barges with stout ropes around tree trunks driven deep into the ground and covered with pitch. Buildings sat flat on the ground most of the time but if the water got too high, they could float up another twenty feet before reaching the end of their posts. And even after that, folk still had a boat, of sorts. 

By necessity, floating buildings were small, light and only one story. The structures were more diamond shaped than rectangular with one of the sharper points facing upriver to divert as much current as possible.

Nag Kath tied Vandery and A’mash outside and walked up three stairs to what looked like a tavern and inn. The inside was unique too. To one side of the central front door was the public room. It had a long, high bar for drinkers and two long tables nearer the entrance. Rooms were to the other side. The room nearest to the tavern had double doors that opened in to the pub in case drinking paid better than sleeping or after the crowd went home. Nag Kath thought that would be the loudest room too and would get something down the hall.

A short, curvy young woman with curly blonde hair sashayed from the bar past other patrons to greet him. She was a promising package until he saw the copper ring. A walk like that meant either her husband was to be reckoned with or worried a lot. Her demeanor was no less forward, “What can I do for ya?”

“A room and stabling for two mounts for two nights.”

“We don’t see many Elves, these days.”

That confirmed something Nag Kath had noticed. The further north he rode, the more people would assume he was an Elf, even with his hair over his ears and dressed in mannish garments. Elves were fresh in living memory as allies. 

“Ah, I am but part Elf.”

She languidly looked him up and down and asked the usual question, “And what part is that?” in a manner that made him hope her man was not the large, jealous type. He'd had enough fighting for the week.

“I am not sure.”

“Fair enough. Room’s six and one each for your horses. It hasn’t happened in six years but if they have to come in here, that’s another ten.”

Nag Kath rescanned the room. Yes, a full room and half a dozen horses would make this cozy indeed. He leaned over to be closer to her face and said, “Perhaps something down the hall?”

She swayed a few steps that way before turning her head to say, “Follow me.” The room was tiny but the bed was surprisingly long. This might be the place in the world where men were taller. It was clean and un-infested so he counted two tenners into her small palm. “I’m baking fish and potatoes. Should be ready in two bells.” Slipping back into her come-hither voice, “What do we call ya?”

“I am Nag Kath.”

“Whilmina.”

With that he went back out to find the stable.

His luck was in. Regardless of how the evening went, and that could swing widely, this woman was considered one of the better cooks on the high street of Filimer. People who lived here came to eat. Come the meal, folk lined long outdoor tables like the mess hall in Orthanc, first in small groups and then wherever they could fit. Not surprisingly, the space to either side of him filled last, but his neighbors did not seem awed by rubbing elbows with one of the Eldar.

Good! Maybe this meant he had finally escaped the tribal violence of Dunland. He thought back to the poor Wild Huntsman with nothing fouler to chase than swamp rats. The old boy to his left repeated his hostess’s comment through fewer teeth, “We don’t see many Elves hereabouts.”

“I am only pa …”

“Course, I heared you’s leaving. Going across the sea.”

This fellow was not a pure source but it was probably time to get a local feel for his ancient kin. Others nearby were either staring or trying to pretend they weren’t listening. That was fine. He had come from humbler beginnings than anyone in the room and he could now hold his own in pub conversation.

“My people were all killed down south a few years ago. I’ve never been here and thought; why not visit? I don’t suppose you know if there are Elves up the Bruinen?”

An older lady across the table saw her cue, “That’s where you’ll find all the ones on this side of the mountain.”

“Do any live here in Filimer?”

They had to think about that for a second. The man next to the lady said, “No, your folk came through in the war but they do not consort with us.”

Nag Kath thought to make some friends, “Well, that is their loss for not associating with such fine folk as yourselves!” With that he raised his mug to a chorus of “Here, here!”

A girl of about fourteen who wasn’t far on the family tree from the sultry innkeeper somehow balanced six plates at a time with a generous helping of the same kind of large pink trout Nag Kath saw crossing the Dusenorn. The kitchen was a separate building that wasn’t not on a raft. That made sense. They might have to rebuild the shack around the heavy oven but it would still be there when the water receded. Half a pint of ale was a groat.

Nag Kath watched the man with few teeth mash his fish to a pulp with his fork before shoveling it in. No wonder the Elves did not eat with lesser men. He ordered a pitcher for his new friends and asked, “Now, tell me …”

At about what would be the nine-bell, Whilmina rang a gong over the bar to signal that folk should drink-up. It didn’t take long. His little party all agreed he was the grandest Elf they ever broke bread with as they waved goodbye. That was probably true. And he learned a fair deal about his road ahead. 

Behind him was a capable militia that had made enough examples of raiders near Filimer that they stayed on their side of the Greyflood from here east. Upriver, things became more civilized, although he would find marshes three days after taking the ferry across the Nen-i-Sul. There were the occasional brigands, but not former soldiers cast adrift for losing. These fellows had always been thieves. According to the best-informed among them, the road stayed dry now that the flood season was over. He should expect mosquitoes the size of ducks.

The crown thinned to just him and another traveler. The girl was piling plates and mugs in a tub for washing outside. His hostess had a far-away look in her eye as she surveyed the room. This was a good turnout. Nag Kath never did see her man. She looked over at him. He nodded.

______________--------______________

Whilmina was the first lover who knew he was leaving. She urgently satisfied her needs well into the night and was gone in the morning. From the small-talk in-between he learned she and her husband owned this and two more floating inns. Since these structures had to be light, as your business grew you built more of them rather than add to an existing barge. Her husband (he was relieved to hear) was strictly a business partner. They lived apart on good terms. The woman probably wore the poor fellow out. 

The girl slept on a cot near the fireplace after everyone left. Nag Kath thought it dangerous for someone of her precocious development to stay in the public room but Filimer seemed a trusting place. Gandalf and Lentaraes told him of courtly virtues among higher persons. He hoped he was getting closer to that. Filimer was not there yet either, which was not all bad. Whilmina would not be welcome in stately halls, at least by the women. Here, her guests all greeted her warmly and hugged or waved as they left. And they would know Nag Kath was not the first guest whose door she had locked from the inside. 

He wandered out of his room. The girl curtsied and asked if he wanted a bowl of porridge. He did and she produced some cold tea and a glowing smile with it. No, they should not leave her alone much longer. He wandered out to the paddock. Filimer was large enough for a stableman who was also a blacksmith/farrier and a couple lads to shovel, feed and make charcoal. An Elvish-looking boy was spreading straw until a fiver landed in his palm to wash and curry Nag Kath’s beasts. As the mount of a bog bandit, Vandery was not used to personal grooming. He thought he liked it but wasn’t sure. A’mash loved attention, especially when it ended with oats. 

Nag Kath took his art satchel to a cane bank eddy off the upper river. It was fully a quarter mile away and slightly downhill from the inn. If the lowest building in town was fifteen feet higher than the level right here, water at your doorstep must test the nerves.

One advantage of being an Elf is that wild creatures come closer before noticing or even caring you are there. A small gray fox was silently creeping along the reeds looking for her breakfast. At this time of year she probably had a den of kits just weaned. A frog was too fast for her but the rat was not so lucky. She shook it sharply and then trotted back the way she came. Nag Kath captured her just before the frog pounce. 

He arrived at the inn as Whilmina was leaving on an errand. She gave him a lazy yawn. “Good morning, Mr. Kath. Hope you had a pleasant evening.”

“Very pleasant. Thank you” 

Nag Kath showed the girl his fox. Her eyes grew wide and she looked at him in wonder. These Elves were remarkable creatures. This one talked to her. As she watched, he whittled four sharp pegs from the kindling pile and tacked the picture above the bar with the understanding that her mistress could do whatever she wanted with it.

The Elf went to see how his animals were bearing up. Vandery decided he liked brushing. With the last of his winter coat gone he looked sleek. The boy pulled a lot more hair out of A’mash who had his usual placid expression. Nag Kath gentled them both. They always liked that.

When he returned, Whilmina was sitting on a bar stool next to her niece looking at the fox. This was her animal. Children of the north often identify with or are considered by others to have traits of animals. Sometimes they are nicknamed after them. Hers was the fox. There she was; ready to strike, frozen in perfection. Did the Elf know?

Nag Kath skipped up the steps. Both females turned to look as he smiled walking by. Whilmina held her head a little higher. He did not know, and she did not say, that he was the first person of her close experience who ever offered her something afterwards that did not make her feel cheap. 

That night he got no sleep at all. 

______________--------______________

From Filimer he thought he would be on the road for a week before reaching the confluence of the Hoarwell and the Bruinen that became the Greyflood or Gwathlo in Elvish. The first order of business was getting across the Nan-i-Sul. It was the basin for the Northern Uplands and still powerful but not full of snow still melting further east. 

There was a ferry, but not a ferryman. And the ferry was on the far side. He pulled the rope but it was tied fast so he sat down and waited on the bank for signs of motion. By lunchtime he knew they would have to swim. His only concern was for his paper. Everything else would dry. Nag Kath had not seen A’mash swim but he did not hesitate pulling his wagon across water. Vandery, by expert accounts, had been in bogs, maybe not swimming, but certainly wet.

Nag Kath emptied his satchel and put the contents in the tube. The cap was a snug fit and closed on the other. It might even float. He would swim himself and let Vandery only have to keep his own weight up. The tube he tied on A’mash next to the sword. Nag Kath took Vandery’s reins with A’mash tied on the usual eight foot rope to the saddle. They walked upriver until he saw a mud bank on the other side and kept going to allow two feet of current for every foot of crossing. It was a rough guess but he did not want to reach the Greyflood.

Finding a gentle sloping bank on their side, Nag Kath tied Vandery’ reins loosely into his belt but held them firmly in his hand while he waded out. The horse balked a little at a foot deep but then followed like he had done this before, letting Nag Kath use both hands to swim. A’mash had second thoughts too but would not be left behind. Nag Kath was counting on that.

It took twenty minutes. They overshot their landing target by several hundred feet and had to hack through some brambles to get from the mud to solid footing. Neither beast seemed any the worse for wear. He checked his tube. It was wet on the outside but the paper was fine. It was good to know they could do this again.

After sorting the gear and giving his mighty steeds some oats to remember how this should work, they made their way back to the north river road. As luck would have it, an old fellow with a huge moustache rode up to the ferry winch and dismounted from a swayback donkey. He stood by the flat-bottomed boat (not a log barge) and stared at the approaching coffle. When they arrived he demanded, “Why didn’t you wait for the ferry?”

“I did.”

“Didn’t nobody tell yas I’m here after lunch?”

Nag Kath roared with laughter, “Must have slipped their minds!”

They got soaking wet and the old boy missed a fare but life would go on.

The road was easy from here. They made good time. It was summer now and this area was given to afternoon showers. They rode through the rain and found shelter from hail. In the foretold three days, they reached the marshes. The really low ground was across the river. 

The man was right about the mosquitoes. They landed on Nag Kath and would start to bite before thinking better of it. Vandery and A’mash suffered, swishing their tails furiously trying to reach their faces. That lasted two days and eased the next two as a range of hills spiking from the Mistys raised the banks high enough above the bugs.

Nag Kath took a morning off to catch a few fish and consult his last map. The next major goal, and obstacle, was the joining of the Mitheithel and Bruinen. They would have to cross the first to follow the second. If it hadn’t been destroyed since the map was drawn, the town of Fennas Drunin was in the fork.

They made that the next day. Nag Kath had readied himself for another treacherous swim but there was a ford with visible stones. The river was rapid and shallow here over a rock bed so the footing was fine.

Fennas Drunin had been a city and probably would be again. It was a growing town now. In the flood plains of two rivers, the soil was fertile in most of what folk called 'the Angle'. It flowed fast enough that water did not backup nearly as much as in the flatter ground downstream. 

What made this place different was that the war was truly over. Dunland was still torn by regional disputes that had killed men for centuries. They had the additional problem that surviving hillmen and other dark allies had been driven there because it was the last place in western Middle Earth worth living. Here, the borders were not hostile. They had their squabbles, but the armies had disbanded and the fields were sown.

Nag Kath was ready for a proper bed. As much as anything, he was ready for people. They looked at him and saw an Elf, but other than a brief stint as an orc, he belonged to the world of men. And he was getting better at it. He found an inn like so many others on his trip that served plain fare and ale. Here it came from a brewery near the center of town that made it cheaper than they could themselves. 

Another change was there were actually people on the road. His inn had several merchants. The partners stayed indoors. Their bearers stayed outside. After a few strategic pitchers of brew, they weren’t as tight-lipped as the rightfully suspicious men of the western foothills. 

The changeling was primarily here for directions. There were choices. He could follow the Bruinen. That was the straightest line but the river was said to flow through steep canyons that had to be skirted on rocky trails. He could hold to the Mitheithel (Hoarwell) in a more northerly track but that meant backtracking to the west bank. Then there was a reliable trail between them. That seemed the best option.

The East/West Road was roughly a hundred miles north. With a clear path, they might make twenty miles a day. That was a guess. Nag Kath did not push his beasts hard and they held up well. There were no towns to speak of on the route but he did see several wagon caravans. None were heading in the same direction but there were people in the established camp sites who would share a fire and a yarn.

In the late morning of their fifth day out of Fennas Drunin they reached the East/West Road. It was no wider or smoother than the track that brought them here but it meant something. The great Bilbo had taken this path to the east. 

There were quite a few travelers. Most were merchants leading or driving their goods to and from growing towns here in the north. A few were simply visiting or following their hearts. There was a wedding party returning home. He saw a small troop of mounted Elves going the other way, to the harbor perhaps. They did not stop and he did not hail them. While he was obviously an Elf to men, he was obviously not to Elves. There were no Hobbits, which was a shame.

There was a piece of his favorite story to explore. Not far away was the site where Gandalf tricked the cave trolls into staying in sunlight and turned them to stone. Gandalf loved telling that tale for, among other things, how the Dwarves had needed the help of the little Halfling. Nag Kath smiled imagining the proud, powerful Folk of Durin trussed like Syndolan turkeys. The site was something of a tourist attraction now. It was a perilous journey not so long ago which was why the King and Hobbits didn’t stay to the main road. Nag Kath decided that since he was not going to Northern Arnor, he was a man of leisure!

There they were, big as life and twice as ugly. The stone trolls were grown over with moss and nesting birds hadn’t done them any favors, but you could tell just how dangerous they must have been. Saruman would not keep trolls. He thought them stupid. And with his force built for daylight fighting, trolls would be limited to lifting things underground. Sauron did not share his daytime Uruk trolls.

There was a well-worn trail up to their hoard as well. He left his mounts with the trolls and walked up the hill with two men from Bree who had heard the story of fabulous riches hidden among the bones. That was where Gandalf got Glamdring. He was glad it hadn’t glowed twice! All that was long gone now, except for the smell. Orcs and trolls had pungent body functions and an aversion to bathing. Nag Kath supposed that odor would linger for centuries.

Now that he was on the original Erebor route, Nag Kath had tactical decisions to make. Going to Dale would take him near or through two of the three most important enclaves of Elvendom. In their presence, he would be a curiosity at best. If the Lady Arwen was any gauge, maybe much worse. One of the places on the route was through her father’s lands. He kept a letter of reference from Gandalf written in their tongue tucked in his tube but the old wizard cautioned they might shoot first and inquire afterwards. 

There was nothing for it. He was still in the Reunited Kingdom and still under King Elessar’s banishment. No one up here would know that but the stories of Dale made it seem a better opportunity than the wastes to the north. Returning to the road he set his sights for the High Pass of the Misty Mountains. 

Avoiding Arwen’s da should probably be fairly easy. He lived with his retainers in a hidden city just off the trail. Gandalf said you could not find it. You had to be invited. That wasn’t likely. On the north side of the Angle there were folk about but when they reached the Bruinen, most of the traffic turned south. Nobody went over the Misty Mountains for weddings. There was a party coming his way from the pass that included a big man who was willing to part with his sheepskin coat for twelve groats. Nag Kath also strapped some dried firewood on A’mash along with extra oats. It was high summer but that pass was a long way up.

After fording the Bruinen, they steadily climbed for another three days. It was not so cold that extra rations for the animals couldn’t keep them moving. Of more concern was the rocky footing. Vandery’s hoof was healed but would never hold as many shoe nails as his other feet. Nag Kath checked it daily. On the fourth day, they made the summit.

**The day before was given this report:**

“Thank you, sir. It is good to be back.”

“Was there any interesting traffic going past?” 

“No, Lord Elrond. We saw but two Dwarf trains and a few merchants traveling in groups. There was one man on horse with a mule in tow heading east, tall fellow with a brimmed hat. He gazed about him but did not seem to be looking for us.”

“That road is safer than it was. Thank you Eliandrith. I think it is time for you and Telarie to prepare for the Grey Havens. Mithrandir is due here in a few months with our Lorien kin and then we will follow.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

**On the same day in Minas Tirith:**

“You have the Mariner’s Guild at two, Gordessan from the farm at three and the gentlemen from Dol Amroth at four, Sire. And Minister Tallazh asked for fifteen minutes at your convenience.”

King Elessar considered that and said, “Put the Minister at two thirty. The Guild needs to make their case by then.”

“Very good, Sire. I’ll send a lad to let Minister Tallazh know. I believe lunch is ready. Shall I have it sent in?”

As a rule, Minister of Trade Tallazh said whatever he had to in their monthly meetings. He had only asked for time outside of appointments made by the King once, and that was for a good reason. As instructed, the attendant came into the King’s working office and announced his two thirty appointment. That was the Guild’s notice to bow and leave. They passed Amiedes Tallazh who walked in behind the attendant and waited until the King waved him forward.

“Hello Amiedes. Have a seat. What brings you all the way up here?”

“I need the exercise, Sire. I wanted to let you know I received a letter from Nag Kath.”

“I had not thought to that. May I see?”

The merchant took a packet from his robe, “Of course, but I’m afraid it will do you no good. It is written in Khandian, and no, he did not write it. But he did dictate it, presumably to keep the text from prying eyes. It is written in the high style of Maresh. My Khandian is the worse for time so I had Mendies let me in the archives to refresh. Nag Kath wishes you and your Lady Queen well, along with his friends here.”

Aragorn wondered how things had gone for him. Tallazh continued, “It would seem hardly worth the effort, Sire, but I think the message is the messengers. He helped two women escape violence in Dunland. The older one is a healer. The other is young and fair. I believe one or both of them know something that Nag Kath felt would be of use to you. He asked me to help them.”

“Are they staying with you?”

“They did for a few days Sire, but have now have taken quarters on the same level north of the prow. They have funds.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I would hardly presume to add to your schedule, my Lord.” Both men knew he would and should if important. “I suggest you welcome them to the White City and see if any pearls drop. I brought their address should you choose to send for them.”

“Should you be here as well?”

Tallazh had considered that. “I am glad to come but I do not think it is necessary. You will not find them timid.” That brought a warm smile.

Four days later at the end of business bell, Haldie brought two ladies to the King’s library. At Queen Arwen’s suggestion, unaccompanied women had a female escort them through the palace. It put them more at ease than the tall, grim guards. Women selected for intelligence and courage were deputized from the household staff to carefully watch guests and act as tour guides before returning to their usual duties. 

The younger woman stopped in the main corridor and looked at a tapestry of a boar hunt. Her escort explained it was an early Steward. Tal had seen a copy of it in Nag Kath’s doodles, though she could not think why the Elf, who did not eat flesh, would draw a picture of stabbing a pig. Upon reaching the library their escort announced, “Mrs. Skilleth and Talereth Doucenne, my Lord.” 

The King was reading in one of four chairs surrounding a low tea-table. He rose when they entered and gave them time to bow. “Thank you for joining me, ladies. Please have a seat. It being so close to the six-bell, I was going to have a cup of wine. Could I interest you in one?”

The old woman said, “You bet!” as the younger said, “Thank you, my Lord.” A steward brought a finely glazed pitcher and matching cups while the King assessed his guests. He thought the healer was a hard-earned sixty. Her clothes were clean but rustic. She did not see well. 

The tall young woman had put some of the wherewithal Tallazh mentioned to good use. Her dark red hair was complimented by an attractive dress of local make with matching fair-weather shoes of city women. A light silver chain was draped around her neck. She was a beauty and no doubt already breaking hearts on her block.

He sat after they did and said, “Minister Tallazh said you have traveled long and hard from Dunland.”

Mrs. Skilleth answered after a sip, “Long but not hard, my Lord. We took barges from Trum Dreng to the Greyflood and thence to the sea. Then a ship brought us to Osgiliath and a cart from there to here.”

The King would follow where this lead, “What are your plans now?” From someone else this would be questioning. From the Lord of Gondor it was conversation.

The old woman again, “As Amiedes probably told you, I am a healer and hope to do as much here, with your and the local Guild’s approval, of course.” 

“And you Miss?”

“Missus, Sire. I have not decided. There is so much to do and see. I am taking my time.” That was followed by a smile that were he not a happily married man, he would want to know much more.

He took a sip of the sweet wine. The old lady had put a fair dent in her cup already. Talereth hadn’t touched hers. The King returned to his purpose, “I understand you know Nag Kath?”

Mrs. Skilleth had another gulp and said, “He put us on the boat. Had a spot of trouble with one of the local militias.” That brought a cackle, “He had them ride into a trap and set off Mithrandir’s match powder!”

The King smiled, “Then he is much up in the world. When he left here he did not even speak our tongue.”

The old one looked longingly at the wine pitcher and said, “Gandalf taught him right enough. He is a powerful healer too. Doesn’t know how to use it yet but that’s what the old wizard told him to do.”

Aragorn topped her cup and had another sip of his own. “And you, Mrs. Doucenne? How did you meet Nag Kath?” Was that a blush? It was. An attractive couple. It was a nosy question but it was out there now.

“We met at a festival in Trum Dreng, my Lord. The city was making merry and farmers were showing him one of their dances. We were paired and, well, one thing led to another.”

Mrs. Skilleth stared into her cup before saying, “Then there was trouble. It all worked out well for the city, but we thought our welcome had worn thin. Tal knows more about that, don’t you dear?”

They spoke inconsequentially for a short time before Haldie, the female escort, had been told to interrupt since the King had to prepare for dinner with the Elvish ambassador, perhaps the last. He arranged this so he could beg off for a few more minutes if needed. No, it would be better to see Mrs. Doucenne by herself for the rest of what the old lady said she knew. Aragorn sighed, “Ah, time waits for no one. Mrs. Skilleth, I have no trouble with your healing profession, thought it is good for you to speak with the Guild. Mrs. Doucenne, enjoy our fair city. I hope we meet again.” That would be arranged.

Mrs. Skilleth took the last pull from her cup and turned to Aragorn. “I know you are the King, and all that, but you take care of Tal. She is a good girl!”

The tall redhead took the old lady’s elbow looking at the King, “And a big girl too. Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord.”

Next week Mrs. Doucenne was asked to return. She had another new outfit that was tasteful but flattering. Some handsome fellow would sweep her off her feet by autumn. They met in the same room at the same time and she was offered wine but asked for tea. 

After the formalities she told his Highness, “I suppose I am here for what Nag Kath knew of the landscape. I was not born in Dunland but I have lived there since I was twelve so some of this he learned from me. The local militia was loyal to the Steward and now to your Lordship. In the east it was hard-scrabble with tentative alliances depending on the range of Uruks and mountain orcs. 

“The east has just been claimed by a family that was also against Saruman. East and West have settled differences and will dispatch united emissaries here shortly. They hope to avoid your Lordship sending favored courtiers to govern. Nag Kath thought them credible.”

King Elessar had underestimated this lovely woman. And Nag Kath! He kept thinking of the giant Elf with Hobbit trousers and haystack hair.

Talereth sensed the King’s thoughts and smiled herself. “He is very fond of you, Sire. He told me all you did for him. And of Gandalf. Gandalf took him under his wing." She continued, “Nag Kath is also very smart. One of the last things he told me was now that south Dunland is aligned, the hillmen are being wedged across the Dusenorn to the north or towards the gap. The Marshal in Isengard cannot hold the gap without support from Rohan so the Isen basin is in peril. He expected any royal support would have to come upriver.”

The King was less certain, “He thinks to offer military strategy?”

Talereth lowered her head, “Forgive my presumption, King Elessar. Nag Kath was sure Gandalf would be here by now with like tidings. He said they left in different directions after a moot this spring. I am sorry, Sire, I meant no offense.”

Aragorn looked at the woman and felt his assessment was conservative. She would probably be engaged by the time she got home. “Please, dear lady, I thank you for your candor. I will thank Nag Kath when he returns.”

“When ... ? My Lord, he said he was banished from your sight. Gandalf bade him go far north and be quit of your realm. Nag Kath thought we would be safest here, but he understood he could never return.”

When the King's face fell, the blood drained from Tal’s. She looked around the room for comfort. Finding none, she murmured, “Oh no.”


	27. His Own Kind

**_Chapter 27_ **

**_His Own Kind_ **

The leeward side of the Misty Mountains was not as steep as the climb. Vandery still showed no shoe problems. In fact, he may have been underestimated in Trum Dreng. With the dead hair out he was a presentable horse, even if he would never be fleet of foot. A’mash was built for trudging. He brayed sometimes coming up but that is a mule’s prerogative. Down-slopes are more dangerous for pack animals if they slip but the road was firm if they kept from encroaching ice.

Nag Kath and his animals continued on the old road which looked towards the Anduin, known as the Great River up here. It was a full days ride from the foothills to the river and that much again until the forest. In retrospect, he would have been better off taking the eastern side of the range. In his childlike world view, he did not begrudge what Gandalf called “Learning Experiences.” His second life was for study and he had certainly done that.

The Old Ford had been a bridge in olden times. But like almost every bridge that had ever been; high water or war destroyed it before his time. The ford looked almost purpose built, as if giants dropped huge flat rocks like the stepping stones in a child’s garden. Runoff was still strong since snow melted until it fell again, but the trio managed to keep everything important dry.

Gandalf’s map of the great forest looked like someone dropped a pork chop on the paper. Other features were sharp and well defined where people actually took measurements with permanent rivers and roads to steer by. Other than the east and west edges, this huge greenway was largely unknown. 

Gandalf drew three horizontal lines to show how it had been divided after the war. The top belonged to the Woodland Elves. Thranduil was their King and his son Legolas was Gandalf’s friend from the Fellowship. Nag Kath wanted to meet all of the Fellowship. Two of the survivors were Aragorn and Gandalf. The Hobbits would have to wait because their lands were prohibited to tall people. Nag Kath was quite tall.

The lowest section was Elvish like the top but with a different breed. These were the highest of High Elves on this side of the sea. It was ruled by two very powerful sorcerers who were grandparents to Lady Arwen. Nag Kath would stay north of them.

The large middle section was entailed to the Woodmen, including the Beornings. The latter were creatures that could change shape. They were quite rare but this land was still designated for their use. The Woodmen were ordinary men who lived close to nature.

The Forest Road ran through the Woodmen’s realm. Gandalf knew little of their politics. He thought the land had been designated loosely so they could settle disputes with room to bargain. The understanding was that the Forest Road was public and these people were not to collect tolls or ransom at the point of a sword.

Nag Kath had never spoken with Radagast privately but Gandalf said this was his home. Sauron’s presence had sickened much of this dense woodland. Unlike people who sprung new generations every twenty years, these trees could not simply replace themselves. They had to heal. Trees do things slowly. They could also think and sometimes speak. In places they were in a foul mood. Learning what the Fangorn trees further south had done to his Uruks, he believed it. Perhaps he would see Radagast again on his journey.

There were grand gate posts on either side of the entrance though the gate was gone and the forest had receded a hundred yards. He could not tell if they were made by men or Elves or the mysterious Numenoreans. His learning was a bit shaky on all of their origins but it seems the original men lived hundreds of years. Not immortal, you understand, but quite a while. They originally settled most of western Middle Earth and built the impressive edifices standing today like Orthanc and Minas Tirith along with many monuments that had weathered time in varying degrees.

Those people attacked the Elves on the other continent and were drowned for their trouble. Survivors became the Dúnedain. As they mixed with lesser breeds, the average lifespan dwindled so that a fortunate man who avoided disease and hostiles was accounted old at sixty.

This road was in better repair than it had been before the war but it was still in a forest with roots and twists. They would have to move at a walk. If the animals could manage fifteen miles a day, they should reach the eastern edge inside two weeks. 

Gandalf warned him about the water. As an Elf he could probably withstand any remaining fell influences but beasts might not. The first stream they reached seemed quite ordinary. It smelled fine too. Nag Kath sipped first then let the animals drink. There was no grazing so the half-sack of oats on A’Mash would have to hold them until they reached grass.

On their fourth day in this dank, oozy graywood they came to a small stream that did not feel wholesome, imbued with an aura of darkness. It really wasn’t visible but he felt it. It flowed from the southwest while all other water drained southeast. How did they not join? Nag Kath knelt to sniff it and got a surprise. The water near his fingers began to mist, a mold-colored green with hints of blackness – the same color he remembered leaving his body before he collapsed in Orthanc. He waved his hand over the cursed waterpath and the skin gleamed healing silver. Was this the gift from the Wild Huntsman? Had he squandered it diving the nature of a rivulet he could hop over?! Well, there was nothing for it now so he made sure neither horse nor mule drank and continued along the improving path. It had been hours since the last clean creek and A’mash wanted to drink. Nag Kath urged him along. When the mule was stubborn, a sharp warag-ish command brought him and Vandery up short. The Elf wasn’t as soft as he seemed. Vandery recovered in a few minutes. A’mash sulked until dinner. 

Four days later they reached a larger creek with an ominous feel, again, flowing counter to the healthy flows. This time he passed his hand over it while standing and felt the sickening color without seeing it. Curious! If this was the gift, it seemed continuing, and easy to summon with a wave of his hand. Black and green were the colors of the dark ones. His own was silver, Elvish? Men showed yellow with illness or wounds. He recalled many colors from the Huntsman’s eyes before losing consciousness. 

Mirkwood became less murky. It was still close and still and like the little forest above the Dusenorn, the trees seemed to reach their grasping fingers down on travelers. Even in summer, not much light penetrated the canopy. There were mosses and ferns and vines choking their way to the sun. He would discreetly not mention this to any of the trees, but the place never felt comfortable.

_____________------____________

After another two days, they unexpectedly met a trio of men leading horses coming from the other direction. They were traders of Lake Town carrying, of all things, salt. Thought it was only midmorning, not a traditional stopping time, they sat for a dried meal and compared notes. Nag Kath told them about the tainted streams. They said the road was fair and he only had another four days before breaking clear of the trees. 

Towards the end of the next day, Nag Kath heard a tiny snap. A man could not have noticed. There are lots of noises in forests but this one came with a presence. He would keep his wits about him. Each animal was given a handful of oats from the sack. This was not their feeding time but he also loosed the leather strap tying his sword in the scabbard.

Two more days and they came to a fairly wide clearing. The forest had been relatively flat though some areas had rolling hills of no more than a hundred feet up or down. To his right, the land fell away into a deep chasm. This was the first pleasant place he had seen since entering Mirkwood, a name that would cling well after the political divisions.

The presence was still there. It could be forest spirits of unknown intention but the likely guests were Elves. He knew very little about them and he must be a puzzle to them as well. If they were Elves, they were probably King Thranduil’s subjects. He would draft his calling card. Making camp early he found just the right place to draw a small but powerful waterfall across the gorge. The light should be perfect tomorrow at mid-morning.

Nag Kath woke as he usually did with the sun and busied himself making oats and tea. While the pot was heating, he looked inside his leather tube for the first time in two weeks. There was a musty smell but no real damage. He left the cap off to let it air.

There was a sound behind him to the north. It might have been a bird or squirrel but it wasn’t. With an exaggerated stretch, he calculated the steps to his sword. In the downtime at the barge camp he made an easel out of maple boards that could be assembled or broken down in just a few minutes. Nag Kath faced it towards the waterfall and clipped the large, tan sheet to the edges for rigidity. If only he had paints! Pencils and charcoal would do and he could ink some of the lines later.

His first effort was uninspired so he put that sheet in the back of the stack and started over. This one came together much better. The light was still not right but he drew in the things he knew would not change so he could capture the sparkle of the water. That was an hour away so he went back to the fire for tea.

There was another noise. No, the same noise. Someone was in the bushes behind him. Someone who did not know he could hear as well as them. He had the ‘Fast’ in his command. He was no easy mark. It was time to see their cards. He walked to ten feet from the edge of the clearing and said, “I am going to reheat my tea. Would you like some?”

When no one responded he added, “It is fresh from Dunland.”

Again, no answer. Of course, Dunish tea was not highly-sought. He sauntered back to stoke the fire. 

A few minutes later, three Elves walked out of the brush. Without turning, Nag Kath said, “It will be another minute. Just make yourselves comfortable.” They stood behind him and looked at each other in silent communication.

Nag Kath finally turned and evaluated his guests. These were Woodland Elves, he supposed, with darker hair and smooth strong faces. They wore fitted garments of green and brown with boots that had barely any heel. He rose and walked to them. Without getting too close he said, “I am Nag Kath.”

The Elf in the middle responded in the common tongue, “You are in the Woodland Realm without leave. You will come with us.”

What was it about offering tea to uninvited guests that made them so rude? He might be able to kill these three but there were certainly as many arrows pointed at his heart. Ever the cordial host, Nag Kath told them, “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll just get packed.”

They looked at each other again. Did this creature intend to bring his horse and donkey? He seemed to think so. The one to his left said something in one of the Elvish tongues. Nag Kath continued pouring tea into his steel cups and walked to them. “I am sorry. I do not speak your language.” They did accept the tea but looked at it like it was troll spit. He raised his cup to his lips for a satisfying taste and said, “I won’t be long.” One of the Elves did sip his tea.

The three Elves took the lead to the east as another three fell in behind Nag Kath and his beasts. Reaching no more than a gap between two bushes, they turned left and walked on a narrow but smooth path another half mile to their own horses, very fine horses to changeling eyes. The Elves mounted without saying a word and maintained three ahead, three behind for the rest of the day without stopping. Vandery and A’mash were at ease. The trail widened after about five miles. Nag Kath supposed they took paths only Elves knew. There was no possibility of escape. 

It was well past dark when the one who did all of the speaking said, “We will stop.” His Elves deployed quickly. One tried to take the pack off A’mash and was roundly heehawed for his effort. Nag Kath walked over to him and rubbed his nose. Groping as if barely able to see, Nag Kath removed the pack and handed it to the Elf. The sword had been confiscated.

“You will sleep here!”

So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves! The next day another of them brought him waybread. This was the real thing. He, being an Elf, only needed a few bites and asked the tallest one if he would share the recipe. That yielded a look of mild distain.

This day they spoke among themselves in what Nag Kath thought was Sindarin. His only familiarity was with Elvish place-names so their daily conversation had no meaning.

This went on two more days. His attempts at conversation got him only blank stares or wonder at his face. With no opportunity to shave, a man would have a fair stubble by now. These fellows weren’t the ones who asked questions and may not even speak his tongue so he kept his own counsel. 

On the morning of the fourth silent day they arrived at a series of check points that would not be apparent if travelers found themselves here by accident. Following a babbling stream, the vanguard scanned the treetops. Birdsong not sung by birds tweeted along the route. They crossed a bridge over a turbulent river and made their way to a grand gate that grew from the forest itself. Then it was another half-a-bell over raised walks through extraordinary light and scale.

The leader told him to stay outside a massive double-door and two of his Elves made sure of that. Fully an hour later, an Elf dressed in robes like the inquisitor in Minas Tirith came out with the troop leader. He was taller and blonder. His eyes went from Nag Kath’s head to feet once. Saying something, he turned on his heels and Nag Kath was nodded to follow.

Nag Kath’s familiarity with caverns was limited to Orthanc and his stinking cell under Minas Tirith. This was inspiring. Living rock columns carved as trees or roots reached hundreds of feet to the ceiling. The robed Elf, his captor and a trooper behind walked over a series of footbridges, some over gaps with no visible bottom. After ten minutes of this they came to a large flat floor narrowing to a high throne made of stone columns and antlers. Upon them sat an elegant figure of vast presence.

He wore no crown but this could only be Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. Nag Kath bowed deeply.

The King said something in their tongue to him. Nag Kath repeated his stock line of being limited to the common speech. Thranduil commanded, “Come forward.” The King crossed his legs as he waited for his prisoner to reach the stairs of his throne platform. In Westron the King continued, “My ohtars say you were trespassing in my realm.”

Even the socially inept changeling knew one shouldn’t confront the King of Elves by declaring that his Lieutenant was ‘pulling the longbow’. “I cannot say, my Lord. I was drawing a picture of the beauty and must have lost my way. It is incomplete but I hope you will accept it as a token of my esteem.”

Thranduil motioned to the rear trooper to give Nag Kath his tube. Very deliberately, he opened the top and took the sketch from the roll. This was handed to the trooper who brought it to the first step. A guard at the base walked the rest of the way up to the tall throne and handed it to the King with a bow before retreating.

The King scanned the picture for fully a minute. Without a word, he re-rolled it and put it beside him. A nod and Nag Kath’s captors were dismissed leaving only the two guards at the base of the throne and more in full armor along the edges of the stone platform.

Thranduil walked down the steps to ten feet from his prisoner. He was the first man or Elf Nag Kath had met who was as tall as he was. The King seemed to notice that too as he slowly approached and had a closer look at this oddity. In a clear, authoritative voice he said, “That was clever. With your drawing you proved the ohtar inaccurate, and yet did not embarrass him. Thank you for that.

“But now, you are going to tell me who you are. We have all the time in the world.”

And as with the Huntsman, there was no use in saying anything but the truth. “It is more a matter of what than who, your Lordship. Little is known of me beyond the White City and Orthanc. I was Uruk-hai to Saruman …”

That sentence would have been longer but the King was suddenly eight feet further away. He was not as fast as Nag Kath but the silver blur was the same strain of magic. The changeling continued, “When the One Ring was destroyed, I became as you see. King Elessar and Gandalf thought I reverted to the Elvish form Morgoth corrupted ages ago.”

Thranduil had moved but was not threatened. “And they let you live. I wonder why.” That was not a question so Nag Kath kept his teeth together.

The King made it a question, “So, why are you alive?”

“I have shown healing ability, my Lord. I was instructed to help the peoples of Middle Earth and make amends for wrongs done them.”

Thranduil walked slowly around the prisoner who stood still but relaxed. “You seem well-connected for a dark servant.” Again, musing, not a question. “Perhaps not.”

“I have a letter of introduction for you from Gandalf, on the off-chance I might visit your realm. It is in the same container as the sketch, King Thranduil.”

With that the King walked to the guard who had taken the tube from the ohtars and had him shake out the contents. The package was one of the first things to fall out. “It is the tan envelope with the red seal.”

The King broke the wax and read it where he stood. Looking up he asked, “Have you seen this, changeling?”

“No, my Lord. Nor can I read or write in any tongue.”

Thranduil scanned the short document again and slipped it in his robe before looking up and saying, “You will go with these Elves while I consider this message. You will be made comfortable.” He nodded to the two back guards who came forward for the captive.

Polite but never bashful, Nag Kath asked, “Your pardon, my Lord, I was told to greet your son, Prince Legolas, if our paths crossed. May I ask if he is here?”

“No.” 

With that, Nag Kath followed the guards back down the footbridges.

______________--------______________

Had the King meant ‘no, you can not ask’ or ‘no, my son is not here’? Perhaps courtly questions are coined not to embarrass.

Nag Kath smiled as he was led away. If the guard noticed, he kept his peace. Our Elf had not mentioned his own little parlor trick of sorcerous motion. This would not be the time. Hopefully Gandalf had not written it down either.

‘The Fast’, as he named his talent, was a weapon he might have to use. But it was also a poor imitation of the powers great Bilbo employed. He recalled Gandalf trying not to laugh describing the august Elvenking’s embarrassment when Bilbo used the One Ring to break a bakers-dozen filthy Dwarves out of these very halls, under the noses of the King’s drunken guards, no less! By how Elves measure time, those lads might still be shoveling stalls in penance. That thought brought forth his least Elvish grin. The guards must have wondered how someone in his sort of trouble could be beaming like a man-child but kept their faces of stone.

Nag Kath was led to a large room that was well lit by clerestories high above the smooth stone walls. There was a bed and a desk with unlit candle stands ringing the octagonal space. There was but one door which one of the guards locked when he left. At least as described, this was not the gaol.

Well, he had spent time in worse places. There were no bugs and the bed was long enough. The light was strangely good. Elves could see well in partial light but they were not cave goblins. Saruman imported a few of those from one of the orc kingdoms to explore the deep caverns of Orthanc. Nag Kath had seen one once when he delivered a message underground. That’s where you found them since even torchlight hurt their huge pale eyes.

He sat on the bed and went into the Elvish resting state. This might take some time.

As the sun was dimming above, an Elf brought him dinner. There was meat but it was not mixed with the vegetables so they were quite edible. A large bottle held a strong, cold tea he had not tasted before. The bread was superb. Now all he needed were answers.

Time passed slowly. Meals were served once a day. On the third day, he asked his attendant if his animals were being tended. The Quendu (male Elf), who was not in soldier’s livery, said, “I am sure they are. We care for our guest’s beasts as if they were our own.” He was out the door before Nag Kath could ask anything else. Well, “guests” was better than “condemned.” His room was not a typical gaol cell but it was meant for long-term “guests.” There was a basin below a tap of fresh water. And as in only the finest homes of Minas Tirith, there was a discreet drain in the corner for the chamber pot. 

The spare time made Nag Kath wonder about these curious people more than he had. Men who saw him thought he was an Elf but he considered himself a man in an Elf’s body. Evidently the Elves thought so too. He wondered if part of the awe in which men held Elves was not so much immortality but eternal youth. They would never be elderly and feeble, relying on hard-used children to mash their fish.

Then there was the notion of advancement. Mortality created opportunity. Even the lord of the manor could not hold his position forever. His sons could look forward to higher station. It applied equally to the stable boy who might become head farrier. Soldiers who did not die were promoted. Bubbles rose in mannish waters. But what about here? Had the fellow who brought the bread or washed the pans afterward been doing that for 1,200 years?

That led him to wonder again about the fastidiousness of these creatures. Elves used things last. Gandalf’s Foe-Hammer was an Eldar sword of renown. Immortal smithies pounded purified steel into an eternal blade. But they didn’t carry the ore out of the hills or crush it with loud drop weights. Or the fantastic wooden carvings? Nag Kath closed the wound of a man who lost two fingers when a log in the river boom buckled. He might have lost the arm or drowned. Here in Middle Earth, Elves could pay from their troves for dirty work. 

What of Valinor? There were no Dunlendings breaking their backs to mine salt. He imagined an Elf in the mud of a pit saw with a wet towel over his face to keep the sawdust out of his nose. That brought another grin. Anyone observing him from a secret window must think him completely mad.

He could get nothing more from the attendant and began to calculate if he could be fast enough long enough to create the friction needed to circle the walls upward. Probably not. That would only get him to a ledge at the bottom of a dome. He was immortal. As long as they kept the food coming, he would await the Elvenking’s pleasure.


	28. A Glimpse of the Eternal

**_Chapter 28_ **

**_Glimpse of the Eternal_ **

That arrived two days later. The same attendant came to his room in the morning with the clothes he had slain the bandits in. They had been cleaned properly but the blood stains were too far set. His attendant waited for him to change and took him back upstairs, this time without an armed guard. Turning off to the right before the throne they came to a pleasant, well-lit room with twenty Elves sitting or chatting before their morning meal. Some were soldiers. Some were robed. Four were women. Their hair ranged from as pale as the King’s to quite dark. He sat next to a fellow in a light brown robe with brocade at the collar. No one spoke to him but they did not stare either.

As food was being passed, the King entered. Everyone stood and bowed. The King made a lesser but still significant bow in return and spread his arms saying in Westron, “Please, be seated.” As he took his chair at the highest point of the horseshoe table, his Lordship added, “Today we are joined by Nag Kath who is visiting from Gondor. He is a very young Elf by our counting and only speaks the common tongue. I hope you will make him welcome.”

The whole table looked at Nag Kath as if waiting for an unflattering description in Sindarin but the King started a discussion with the people to his right. Everyone would have to satisfy their own curiosity. The Elf in the brown robe nodded to him and said, “I am Tulferath. How nice of you to come.”

“I am honored, Tulferath. This is a noble assembly.”

“We are a working group. There are many different Elves in this forest united under the King’s banner. It gives us opportunity to stay informed.”

Nag Kath took a second to wonder what Gandalf’s letter said and what the King had shared with his subjects. The ohtars would probably keep their mouths shut. Since it did not really matter, he decided on his usual pattern of gathering information without offense.

“You wear different garbs, I see. There must be many ways of serving your Lord.”

Tulferath agreed, “I am a scholar and keeper of the texts. In blue over there is the person who sees to our nourishment. King Thranduil likes to meet with many subjects and listen to their cares. He is very wise. Our Lord said you are visiting from Gondor.”

Nag Kath warmed to the subject, “Indeed, though I came by way of Isengard and helped organize the archives. I know a number of them are bound for your people. Others will return to their original homes.”

“Splendid! I assume ours are going to Rivendell. I will be there soon and will look for them.” The scholar nodded to an exquisite creature across the table and said, “Nag Kath, this is the Lady Turrael.”

Nag Kath gave her a seated bow, “I am honored, my Lady.”

She was so perfect that was no telling what she actually thought; excellent for playing dukks. With effortless grace she said almost as poetry, “Welcome to these Halls.” A shorter man might be intimidated by the beautiful head looking down from that long neck but she was almost eye-to-eye with him. “What brings you here Nag Kath?”

Not really an answer but mostly true; “I had the privilege of bringing your Lord a drawing of a waterfall in the Great Forest.”

She brightened, “An artist! You will find kindred here.”

Tulferath added, “Why yes. As it happens, the Elf in the pale tunic next to the lady in green is Danethiur.”

The name meant nothing to Nag Kath but it mattered here. “I hope to meet him, Telfurath.”

His thoughts returned to the woman. There was no telling from her expressionless face if her comment was more than courtesy. 

His best plan was to get his animals and ride out of here alive. Things were going his way. He was out of gaol and at the King’s table. There seemed to be respect for artists here so he might learn something from timeless masters. And as long as he wasn’t locked-up, he could probably make the front gates before they were barred or there was a trap-door in the wine cellar that they did not know he knew about.

He would see where this led. Leaning towards the alluring Lady Turrael he inquired, “Are you an artist yourself, my Lady?”

“No, I am not.”

Well, it was worth a try. Back to the scholar, “Is there a gallery in these halls that shows the legacy of the Woodland Realm?” 

“Several. When his Lordship has released us I would be glad to show you.”

That happened fairly soon. Elves don’t eat much so it doesn’t take them very long. All stood and bowed as the King took his leave and Telfurath brought him to meet the artist after they both bowed to the Lady.

Danethiur looked down his nose at Nag Kath’s bloody clothes and implied he hoped the oddity enjoyed his visit. Undeterred, the scholar brought the changeling down a level to a large gallery. Again, the light was better than one would think in a cave. Telfurath excused himself on pressing business and left Nag Kath alone. 

The fledgling artist was not sure what he could learn from this place. The art was purer than in the south, which was probably derived from here. It was still representational. It was supposed to mean something or be something or tell a story. It would help trace the line of kings and battle from a historical perspective but it had no life of its own.

After an hour Nag Kath wandered back to his cell. The door was open and his belongings were there, less the sword. He discreetly checked if the Elvish hair circlet was still wrapped in the box. It was. 

Later in the afternoon, a different attendant, this one more soldierly, came inside and said, “King Thranduil will see you now.” Approaching the throne Nag Kath bowed deeply and rose to his full height.

The King held his chin the same way Aragorn did for a moment and said, “I confess, I do not know what to do with you any more than the others. Perhaps you should tell me of your plans, Nag Kath.”

“My Lord, from here I thought to visit Dale. It is a place of culture and learning, and far from memories of Isengard. I should like to continue as an artist and am told the city may have room for me as such. And I will continue to heal, lo my skills are in their infancy. Perhaps I can find a teacher there. In time I hope to read also.”

“Your picture of the waterfall is quite fine.”

“Thank you, my Lord. It is not complete. I will finish it for you if think it worthy of your home.”

That sentence made an impression. The King considered his wording; ‘home’, not realm or Hall or public place, home. “I would like that, Nag Kath.” The King nodded to an attendant, presumably to have the drawing brought to his room. “You are welcome to look at our other art as well. For the time being you will be our guest here.”

Nag Kath took that as both a command not to leave and his dismissal. Bowing before two steps backward, he returned to his quarters. 

After lunch, Nag Kath spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the other galleries. The smallest was more to his taste. There was a series of sketches with Elves smithing metal and weaving or bundling fresh-cut grain. The artist did not try to capture too much. A rider showed the eyebrow and eye line so strongly that he did not draw the top of the Quendu’s head. It wasn’t needed. That made the visit worthwhile as long as he walked out the gate someday.

The next morning the sketch and his art tube were returned. The artist Danethiur brought them. “Good morning, Nag Kath.”

“Good morning to you, Danethiur.”

“Your picture is very good. It deserves to be finished.”

“I appreciate your saying so. I hope to see some of your work ere I leave.” That was true and dropped the hint that he did not need to stay here forever. He would already be old fish in a man’s home but these people did not think that way.

“Come, breakfast will be ready soon.” They walked the main corridor and then west, he thought. Elves they met nodded or smiled at both of them. Everyone knew one another. Nearing the outside of the complex, residential apartments fanned like pie slices so their entry doors were quite close. Danethiur opened one and waved his palm to enter.

Everything in the home looked like it had always been there. The colors, the light, the air itself all fit. A lovely woman in a soft blue gown came forward and bowed. Nag Kath did the same. Danethiur said, “My Lady, this is Nag Kath. Nag Kath, I am pleased to introduce my wife.” There was no name and he did not know if she was Mrs. Danethiur or that was his first name. Ma’am would do.

“And this is my daughter, Inhai.” Said of a girl who, if human, would be about twelve. He did not know and did not ask. She bowed as well. Danethiur walked around the main entry room and said, “These are works from different points in my career. I fear some were too bold for tastes in their time.”

Nag Kath had hardly noticed them at first since the experience was of the room, not its contents. The females repaired to the kitchen. Nag Kath carefully looked all of the examples. Some were paint, some were drawings and a few were water colors, something he had not tried before. Returning to a small sketch in the corner a third time Nag Kath said, “This is my favorite.”

“May I ask why?”

“You stopped when you were done.”

Danethiur went stock still. Nag Kath understood. The Elf was young by their reckoning at barely 1,400 years old. Although an acclaimed artist, until this morning no one else understood. Their art, their tradition of art, was completeness. That followed in architecture, music and dance as well. And now this queer Elf from no-one-was-sure-where saw the sketch and instantly knew that Danethiur had stopped drawing when there was no more left to say. 

“Nag Kath, I would very much like to see you bring your waterfall to life.” 

The changeling unslung the tube from his shoulder and pulled the drawing. The artist’s table was right there in the main room including sand bags to hold the paper flat. Nag Kath had never actually seen the reflections he planned to capture but he had seen enough waterfalls. It wasn’t ten minutes later when he looked up at his host and said, “I imagined it as such.”

In as close as a real Elf might come to a furrowed brow, Danethiur asked, “How long did it take for the initial sketch?”

“Perhaps half an hour. I knew I was being watched so my concentration was more on your Lord’s ohtars than the drawing.”

“I see. Ah, our meal. Nag Kath, please sit here.”

Mother and daughter brought several plates of delicious food including a variety of fruits Nag Kath had never tried before. When they were seated and served, the wife said, “Thank you for joining us. Danethiur always enjoys showing the work he keeps for himself.” Inhai added that her favorite was a watercolor of birds near a stream. That was Nag Kath’s second favorite. The child’s common speech was better than his.

Danethiur asked, “How long have you been an artist, Nag Kath.”

Nag Kath did his own version of a furrowed brow while counting, “Just over a year now. Yes, a year in May.”

Whatever Danethiur was about to say stuck in his throat. His lady wife came to the rescue, “You must practice very hard to have learned so much.”

“Yes, thank you. At times it has been all I did, but on the trip north I went weeks without the opportunity.”

Danethiur decided he and Nag Kath would cover that subject privately and turned the conversation to capturing light. After they finished, the artist told Inhai something in their tongue which could only have been; now it was time for her duties. She rose and gave a slight bow before following her mother.

______________--------______________

Nag Kath stayed in the King’s Hall another month and was tempted to stay longer. Like Quastille in Minas Tirith, Danethiur was both a teacher and accepted private commissions. In such a closed society, public works were spread evenly across the acceptable candidates and he got his share. His studio had two students who were allowed to participate in the daily meetings between him and Nag Kath. They benefited too, though one was only ninety three and did not speak much Westron.

Both Danethiur and Nag Kath thought they got the better of the exchange. Nag Kath was taught Elvish painting techniques. Oil-based colors were similar to mannish strokes. He was fascinated by water color. Quastille did not stress that style because errors could not be repaired and he was training commercial artists who might need to sell less than their best work. That would be unthinkable here. Nag Kath ruined a quarter inch of paper testing flow and blending.

For his part, Danethiur learned some of Nag Kath’s speed and ability to build on a dominant line rather than blocking in the pieces. One might think it would be the older Elf who could imagine the work first but they weren’t trained that way. Nag Kath’s only concern was that Danethiur would create more inspirations he couldn’t sell. As Quastille never failed to repeat, “You have to make the people happy.” Both of them drew or painted the heavens. Elves are fond of the star constellations. One of Danethiur’s students was especially good at starting with star points and drawing in the beings or symbols to connect the positions. 

Beyond the studio, ohtar in the Elvenking’s Hall were polite but did not speak. That was to be expected. Nag Kath mimicked their pursed smiles. He learned that one only grinned broadly in adversarial situations, usually at someone considered inferior. A horse-laugh from such as him was a serious insult. The Elves decided he did not know better but that did nothing for his standing.

He had better luck with administrators. Like in Minas Tirith and probably most large governments, there were people whose job was to keep things working. Elves grew little of their own grain and meat. They had craft that kept things edible for quite a while. If they could, they imported wine and ale. As Nag Kath surmised, they bought metals that had already been refined to rough pigs and wood sawed in planks except for the thickest carvings. And they could wait a long time for men to barge them upriver. They kept stores of everything. He was sure there was a treasure room somewhere but made a point of not seeming interested. Functionaries were willing to answer his questions and no one seemed to mind him sketching the extraordinary architecture of this living Hall.

One demerit was that he never saw the beguiling Lady Turrael again, and precious few other females except at occasional music recitals where they were always accompanied. His interested blunted after discovering courtships could take centuries. 

Danethiur arranged for Nag Kath to visit his horse and mule. They were definitely the poor relations in the stable though A’mash thought himself lord of the estate. He probably reminded them his mother was a horse. Nag Kath also saw Telfurath a few times and told him more about the Elvish archives from Orthanc destined for Valinor. The scholar assured him that they would be collected in Rivendell first and that he would be leaving for the Undying Lands fairly soon himself along with a large party coming from southern enclaves. That suggested to Nag Kath that these people had a secret way to reach the western side of these steep mountains. They had lots of other secrets so what was one more?

He only saw the King a third time when he deliver the finished waterfall and bid him farewell. Yet again, he had escaped on the healthy side of mortal judgment wiser and more capable than he entered. Thranduil was gracious in the way of high Lords but never friendly, habit of a lifetime, Nag Kath supposed.

Nag Kath learned a great deal about his long-lost kin. They were not all cold and aloof. It was more that they were so old and their society was so ordered that a nuance could convey vast meaning. Inhai’s little bow held as much love and tenderness as the biggest, sloppiest kiss off the trail in Edoras. The Elves might not understand why Danethiur’s picture was finished, but they did know when a thought or gesture was enough. 


	29. New Roots

**_Chapter 29_ **

**_New Roots_ **

****

**Helpful maps include; Dale, Loremaster Dale and Esgaroth.<https://imgur.com/gallery/jHPlDU8> **

Nag Kath, Vandery and A’mash rode in the dappled sunlight towards the edge of the forest. There were two escorts ahead and behind. Unlike what he had heard of Lorien and Rivendell, this place was not a secret, though it was hard to reach and defended by the finest soldiers in the world. 

And it was also close to Dale. He was abducted and taken due north to the intersection of the Elvenhall and the northerly route to the Long Lake. After faring his escort well he only had another day and a half to the city center. Danethiul gave him a standing offer to return anytime.

That was part of a pleasing trend. Everywhere he went he made friends, often people of influence. He did not know if he would ever see any of them again but the memories were warm. He hoped Dornlas would be married by now and that Captain Marchand and the Maedos came to terms. The red-beer Dwarves in Orthanc were here in Erebor by now. There were also people who were not friends but might think well of his capabilities like Morannen and King Éomer. Thranduil would now be included in that group. They might not go out of their way to help, but they probably would not shoot on sight either. King Elessar? He was not sure. What had he said under his breath?

One look at Dale and Nag Kath knew he would like it here. He could see the hillside city from well off. Nag Kath did not stop at Lake Town and rode another three leisurely hours to reach the city, all the while in awe. The colors, water and mountains were an artist’s dream. 

Nag Kath did know that Dale was a mercantile kingdom like Gondor but with much less history. After the war of five armies it was rebuilt in fine form. Citizens did not replace the ornate decoration of longer-lived men which gave it a unique charm more closely tied to folk here today. Fortunately, it fared better than most cities in the Ring War. The enemies then were Easterlings who besieged their fellow men and Dwarves in Erebor but did not have the necessary artillery to sack Dale too. The Lings were routed after Sauron fell and the support orcs collapsed. Heads on pikes along the border were left to remind them.

No one in Thranduil’s realm knew anything about accommodations here. Nag Kath did learn there was an Elvish ambassador to King Bard’s court, for all the good that would do him. He would hold to his usual pattern of staying in a nice inn and asking inoffensive questions. That was helped along when he found a restaurant on the high street with interesting food and wondered aloud where he might stay for his vacation. One old fellow said further up the street was an inn that catered to extended stays and described the place.

It was what he was looking for. The building was three stories, not including the basement, which had windows on the downhill side. Those windows were glass rather than the oiled-paper of Edoras and most of Trum Dreng. Roofs were tiled and steep in a land that must get heavy snow in winter. Tying the animals to a rail post he walked up the steps into a hall like the Fair Maid with a separate desk away from where food and drink were served.

The clerk was speaking to a lad with his back turned but the boy gestured and he came to the counter. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the King’s Arrow.”

Nag Kath ventured, “I wanted to inquire about a room and stabling for two animals.”

“Then you have come to the right place. Does sir intend to be with us long?”

Nag Kath said, “I hope to. You have such a fair city.”

“Thank you. We think so. Do you have specific needs?”

The Elf hadn’t considered that before, “Not really. I would like a window but it seems many have fine views.” In the subtle negotiation for space, that was the hint that he did not mind stairs in exchange for light.

“Bard will show you room 306.”

The lad said, “If you will come with me, sir.”

Bard, eh? Nag Kath later learned that people often had historical first or last names here. They could go by either or both. There were many Bards and Brands underfoot in Dale. The boy nimbly climbed the steep staircase assuming the Elf could keep up. At the top landing he turned left and opened the second door.

Yes, this would be just fine. The room was on the small side but had a narrow bed that was long enough, a writing desk and chair, a wash basin and a tall wooden cabinet that could hold far more clothes than Nag Kath had ever owned. The boy opened the shutters and showed him the city above the lake with Erebor against the far mountains. He could paint sitting here. Nag Kath slipped the boy a fiver and returned to the desk.

For single nights the room rate was a silver tenth which included both horses in the local stable. The rate for a month was twenty; Minas Tirith prices. In Nag Kath’s growing economic vocabulary, Dale was the center and cause of inflation. There was a mountain of gold across the valley in Erebor. Men rebuilt the city with their begrudged share of the dragon’s hoard and a gift from the great Bilbo. Elves had an interest in that too and while they spent little on rebuilding the city, this was their primary source of many things. Quality mattered and Mr. Tallazh said they did not like haggling. People here paid for what they wanted.

The Dwarves could buy the city and everything in it but were notoriously tight with their coppers. The joke, which no one shared with them, was that their short arms did not quite reach their pockets. Nag Kath considered his own pockets. A month would give him all the time he needed to learn the city front to back. That left seven Florin, enough to buy a home if he wanted to live here. No, two nippers to stay in the nicest place in town was a bargain. The food smelled good too.

Dale was a city of about 8,000 souls not including several outlying towns of as many as 800 or Esgaroth at two thousand. Also called Lake Town, Esgaroth had been rebuilt to serve the barge and boat traffic that distributed the many goods made here to the Dalelands and beyond. Elevation still meant status. That was relative because the city was largely ordered by guilds or occupations. Success always varied, but folk in those trades generally stayed close to each other, often close to the main market by the wharf. 

King Bard II was only the fourth in his line after a gap of better than two hundred years. The King was first among equals but could not ride roughshod on rural sensibilities. There might be another 40,000 subjects in outlying districts and they knew their influence. There were no landed gentry in the city walls. Like in Rohan, Thains were the nobility of the Kingdom and they stayed on their lands except for dealings with the crown. That would not keep anyone from lording it over the townsfolk, but there were no ancient Dukes in the woodpile to rub it in.

There were so many faces here. Each of two Dwarvish settlements of Erebor and Iron Hills lineage was two or three thousand strong. There were hundreds of Dwarves in the city proper or just outside the walls. The primary race was Northmen who were friendly to Gondor. For the first time since Minas Tirith, Nag Kath saw vast tracks of land under cultivation. Farmers were everywhere. Land had been given to them or sold cheap to encourage settlement in these fertile fields generations ago. There was water, but not too much like in the treacherous Greyflood plain. Soldiers were farmers first. The area could feed itself one one crop a year and there were plenty of fish in the lake.

What Nag Kath liked most was that different peoples and even races got along. Dwarves would eat at the same places as men of many colors and dress. Traders from further east with their leather caps and long moustaches and braided hair mingled with fair-headed folk from the north. No one came here to pick a fight. They had their share, but usually those were misunderstandings over trade or ale. Or wine. They fermented that here too and in Dorwinion further south. 

A couple days into his stay, the Elf decided he needed a guide. Bard (of the inn) had a cousin at liberty. They were both born and bred here and knew what there was to know. Nag Kath would still ask questions of people he thought had specific knowledge but Brenen was to be his eyes and ears.

Brenen Fal was a year older than Bard with the same mop of dirty blonde hair. Both of them would be handsome men in a few years. Nag Kath had Brenen explain who ran the place and who to avoid. He also inquired about both art and healing. The young man knew little about art. There were many healers and herb shops. There were also folk who could divine your future or cast out devils, but Brenen could not afford their services. Art was a mystery because almost all of the public sculpture and painting was attributed to men who were buried twenty years ago. If there was demand for new art, it was a private affair. Nag Kath decided he would take his easel to fashionable settings and see who looked over his shoulder.

He ate around the city and found enough places that separated the meat from the rest that he didn’t have to pick through it like a fussy child. The food at the Arrow was good too. One night he went to a Dwarvish tavern and bought pitchers for thirsty toymakers. Mentioning two of the emissaries at the repatriation conference made him a hale-fellow-well-met. Bruigin’s cousin’s cousin was in that group and wasn’t it grand that they got their things back?!

___________--------___________

After twelve days in Dale he decided he would stay. There was nothing behind him and not much ahead. More importantly, no one was trying to get rid of him. He looked like an Elf. They did not usually associate with men. He did, but after one look, folk went about their business. He wasn’t a threat. He obviously wasn’t an Easterling and he wasn’t poor. There were women here too although he had not pursued any. Lentaraes said that a woman was the best way to learn a new city. Lentaraes never worried about entanglements.

The next day he and Brenen took the leather tube and easel to the Fountain of Bulin. It had survived the dragon by being wet, which made it one of the oldest structures in Dale. Scorched buildings nearby were demolished and the open space was now a park alive with summer flowers. Brenen was having a wonderful time getting paid to help this nice man or Elf, he wasn’t sure which. The creature did not cuss him or ask anything improper. Nag Kath bought them both lunch at an out of the way table of a small café and asked the waitress if he could set up his easel afterwards. The woman had no trouble with that and watched between servings.

It started as a sketch and then the Elf used his new paints from Danethuir. This was primarily a business stunt. His table was chosen both for the view of the fountain and because a lot of people in the park would pass behind him. He took his time with several hours of sun using the Elvish brushes for the first time away from the studio. He did not think it was one of his better efforts but he was noticed. Several strollers stopped to watch and wondered if his work was available. It was, thank you for asking! Brenen gave them cards with Nag Kath’s name and the King’s Arrow copied from the sign. Before this public display, Nag Kath had Brenen check if there was an Artist’s Guild. There seemed to be a guild for everything else and Guildmasters were famously protective of their turf. Brenen could not find one, as such, but wondered if entertainers might qualify.

The painting sold for a silver and four people took cards. 

The next evening he had dinner alone at the inn. The city was preparing for a festival of some sort. That was always good news. Brenen was sure it wasn’t a scheduled holiday and later reported that King Bard’s only nephew was to marry. This was a dynastic union with the daughter of a regional Thain. Brenen knew nothing about her. It had the feel of Naedrath’s Progress. Late flowers were in bloom. There was to be a reading, a procession and pledge between the two houses.

An elegant woman in her early-thirties wearing a pale blue dress came down the stairs and was seated at one of the larger tables in the center of the room. Not long after, a couple who might be forty joined her and was graciously received. 

Had he seen her before? That was a face to remember, a soft oval with high cheeks and green eyes. Yes! She could be the woman he drew what seemed like ages ago in Minas Tirith, the first sketch he ever sold. This lady’s hair had more brown than red. Both shades glistened in the fading light. Was she here for the wedding? The couple was seated just as he finished but he would remember her.

The wedding was the event of the summer and it was the day before a regional trade fair started. Local folk of renown were arriving and the inn was near to full. It was that way all over Dale. Lordly visitors stayed up the palace hill which was the only area of town that was officially denied to passersby according to a man in the restaurant. 

It was time for another public demonstration. He and Brenen carried the supplies to a bench he spotted half a block from the inn facing Erebor. It was hard not to find places worth drawing. This was to be a large work so the easel was extended with several thin hardboards and two pieces of fine Elvish paper glued edge-to-edge. Nag Kath worked more slowly than usual. Brenen was to encourage spectators. 

Pickings were slim. A dozen Dwarves wandered past to see their Lord’s Gates but their arms did not reach their pockets. Men with empty cloth sacks were returning home after working up the street. A stout couple smiled but did not slow. Perhaps the subject was too Dwarvish for the paying public.

“Do you draw people too?”

Brenen had reached the age where he could be stunned by desirable women. He hadn’t alerted Nag Kath but at least he didn’t stare.

Nag Kath turned on the bench to see the lady of the inn. “I do. And I feel I have drawn you before.”

A clumsy advance? Perhaps it was his unusual accent. “I hardly see how. I have not been here for an age.”

“In Minas Tirith, last year. I would have thought there could only be one like you. If I am wrong, the world is a better place.”

Brenen thought the Elf was even smoother than another good-looking cousin who had to stay one step ahead of Dale’s fathers and husbands.

“I have never been there at all.” finished with the faintest of smiles.

“That is their loss, my lady.” Looking at the sketch, “My heart is not in this one.” He stood. She was about ten feet behind him and the slope of the hill put them eye-to-eye. 

She looked at the painting again, “Are you here to draw the wedded couple?”

“I have only just learned of the union … only just arrived in Dale two weeks ago. It seems the city is making merry.”

“Yes.” She said in a far-off voice. “The auspices are good.” Returning to her first voice, “If you have already drawn me, I will take my leave.”

Brenen knew the next sentence would make or break the handsome Elf as a ladies man. “A pity. I never quite captured her eyes.”

Again; the close smile. She nodded and walked back up the street.

Brenen said, “That was a near thing, Nag Kath. I was hopin’ for you.”

“There is always hope, Brenen.”

Nag Kath watched for the lady at the inn but did not loiter or ask about her. Women usually asked about him. It was not a conceit. Inquiries were few and far between.

**_Of Hobbits and Ferns_ **

The next afternoon she was relegated to the back of his mind when he fulfilled an ambition. Buildings high and low often had tiny porches and patios that only held one or two tables. Some had gazebos or lattice screens for privacy or could even be walled-in with panels in winter. They were enjoyed in private homes and public places which often abutted one another, sometimes hard to tell apart.

Either way, here were three Hobbits enjoying an ale and a pipe together next to the lane. He was not mistaken this time; very short and beardless with the same curly hair in shades of brown, red and gray. All had their people’s embroidered vests of many pockets. They also had the famed “clever fingers” that were nearly as long as his own on people half his height.

Nag Kath approached them from the street side of the wall and asked, “I beg your pardon but are you gentlemen of the Shire?”

The oldest of them, who may have been putting ale away since breakfast snorted, “Of course not! There were Hobbits here before the Shire. They went there from here.”

“Ah, I did not know.”

A more sober Halfling said. “There are more of us here than Elves, though we often have family to the west.”

The old one was not to be outdone, “My cousin lives near Bree. Never said a kind word in her life; that one. Glad she’s there.”

The sober Hobbit again, “Thank you for asking, though. Have you been there?”

“Alas, no. I came here from Gondor.”

The third filled the silence, “That is a long road.” He looked to his friends, “Do you think we can find him an ale?” Without waiting for an answer he added, “Pray join us, sir. The front door is just there.” It was not round but it was unlocked so Nag Kath stooped his way back to the veranda.

“You are most kind. I am Nag Kath.”

The old one, who might have been a parent of the other two, growled, “Not a very Elvish name.”

The Elf admitted, “It does not roll off the tongue.”

The one who invited him managed their end of the introductions, “I am Lotold Brightens. This is my brother Lorens Brightens and this cantankerous old fellow is our Uncle Stifo Stikeleather, at your service.”

His host suddenly added, “Oh, your ale! Uncle?”

“No, this still has life.” Lotold was gone and back in a moment with a mug while Nag Kath sat on the street wall.

Lorens kept the conversation going, “What brings you to Dale, Nag Kath?”

“I am an artist and heard my work might be appreciated.”

Uncle Stifo opined to the sky, “Artists and singers and fortune tellers! Does no one do a day’s labor anymore?”

Lotold sighed, “Just ignore him, Nag Kath. He is not really as ornery as he seems.” That garnered a beaming smile from the cranky old Hobbit.

“I have arrived at a joyous occasion. Do you know the happy couple?”

Lorens admitted they did not. “The girl comes from the country. She is quite young by our customs. He …”

“He is the homeliest fellow in the county! And it is a large county!”

Lotold scolded him, “Now Uncle Stifo, that is unbecoming and no way to treat our guest!” Looking to said guest, “I’m sure the couple will be blessed in their union.”

The old Hobbit looked at Nag Kath and said contritely, “I am sorry, young man.” Then, with a wicked chortle, “He can’t help the way he looks.” 

Lorens shook his head and asked, “Are you here to paint the wedding party?”

“You are the second person to ask. I am only just arrived and not known to anyone here. Is it the fashion to memorialize these events?”

Lorens said, “Yes, among men. Our own people often have paintings made afterwards. I am told the portraitist of the court is very good.”

Nag Kath raised his mug, “Then let us toast their good fortune.”

He hoped to meet them again, even Uncle Stifo. He was not sure when or how to explain that in another life he had been sent to hunt their kin. It was indeed a blessing that the Uruk-hai were incompetent.

As days passed the Elf started looking for a home to buy or lease. That was interrupted when he received a note from one of the people who took his cards at the fountain. The desk clerk read it for him. They hoped he would visit their home the following day at eleven to draw a family portrait. That was his bread-and-butter in the White City. The clerk thought it a very respectable neighborhood and told him how to get there. That earned him a fiver.

The couple could not have been nicer. He didn't remember them at the fountain. They were in their late thirties and not attractive, but made more than up for it with pleasant smiles. Nag Kath knew how to make happy people look happy. Their young son Uldath was a smaller version of them. The older daughter was the challenge. She was about thirteen. The lass was not comely either and looked like she had been hauled before a Magister for sentencing. Brenen helped carry things and Nag Kath explained how he wanted to light the picture. The couple said it was nice to see the lad again, earning Brenen a finder’s fee.

Nag Kath had the professional dilemma of counterfeiting a smile to match the girl’s loving parents or drawing the hangdog frown that would stare down on diners with every meal. He drew two faces on the outer edge of the sheet. Then he innocently looked up and asked, “Mrs. Patellence, could you help me?”

She rose from her chair and walked behind him. He nodded to the choices. Brunnah Patellence was no one’s fool. She pointed at the smile and returned to her seat looking like the cat that ate the mouse. Nag Kath roughed a potted fern over the sample faces and only the two of them would be the wiser. That earned him two silvers and a delicious lunch. Brenen ate with them and made friends with young Mr. Patellence, who was a very respectable young man.

_____________--------_____________

Unbeknownst to Nag Kath, intrigues were unfolding that were strangely similar to Trum Dreng. His situation was quite different but powers-that-be always have the same problems.

“What is the woman doing here?”

“She was invited.”

“She is always invited. Whoever thought she would accept?”

Finrales walked around to the sideboard and helped himself to another cup of wine. “I don’t see why you are making such a fuss. That business was settled long ago.”

“It is not so settled, and you know it.” Earkinford looked at the wine goblet himself but decided this was a night for a clear head. "Forgive me my friend. This is just not the time to be raising old ghosts. What does the King know of this?”

“I cannot say. Brand kept his own counsel. He certainly didn’t have time for a deathbed confession. I am not sure I want to be the one to bring this up.”

Earkinford stared at the wine goblet more longingly, “Me either. But someone should. It is one of us or Arfendir, if you can pull him away from the bottle.” Another stare, “Maybe she is here to lay claim. No Finrales, he should hear it from us. I will approach his Lordship if you agree to back my play.”

“Very well. Do not give away the throne.”

** In another part of the palace **

“Dougsh! You are sure?”

“Quite.”

“When did you learn?”

“Yesterday. Tanisditter confirmed it this morning.”

The two men were discussing the complex staffing arrangements for the wedding ceremony. Turn Leddifur was the King’s Chamberlain, a promotion when Bard took the throne. Fredar Galoxyn was Quartermaster but he had been seconded as head wedding planner when the nuptials were moved to the palace. 

The Chamberlain shook his head, “A stroke?”

“Happened a month ago. The old fool kept thinking he would recover enough to do the wedding pictures. Tanisditter said he can’t move his left side and drools. The mind is still there and he can speak a little. But devil the man! He should have spoken of this!”

Leddifur grasped at straws, “Who else is there? I would not be so concerned about such unmanly business but blast, this is Thain Uvald’s baby girl and the King’s nephew, his heir as well. Can’t any of our women help? They ought to be doing this anyway.”

Galoxyn shook his head, “Tanisditter is running that down now, including inquiring among the women. One fellow came to mind but he is more house painter than artist. I’ll ask the patrons of the sculpture garden for a name.”

The Chamberlain stared at his tea, “A bloody stroke!”

_____________--------_____________

Nag Kath gave Brenen two tenners for finding the Patellences. The lad was speechless. This was terrible. When he brought his earnings home to his father, the man bought wine and beat him and his mother. Either da needed to get drunk enough to die or he couldn’t see even one of these. 

Brenen arrived a few days ago before with a black eye. Boys get black eyes fighting among themselves or walking into gates but the Elf was worried. The lad had not spent a groat on better clothes or anything to eat. Nag Kath remembered tales of Dornlas’ brother-in-law, not to mention all the pubs where someone wanted to throw a punch at his pretty face.

“Da give you that shiner?”

“Aye.”

“Do that often.”

“Any chance he gets.”

“And your ma?”

“Same.”

“Got brothers or sisters?”

“Had a sister. She died little. It wasn’t him. Fever comin’ off the lake. I got sick too but made it.”

“Does he use what I pay you to buy ale?”

“Wine.”

“Does he have a job?”

“He used to fish but he hurt his back and had to sell the boat.”

“Is there anywhere else you can stay?”

“Bard’s folk maybe. They like me but they don’t want my father comin’ round. His da and mine are brothers. Bard’s the lucky one.”

“Your luck is about to change. Better trade one of those tenners for groats at the desk”

_____________--------_____________

“Sire, may I have a word?”

“Certainly, Lord Earkinford.” When his father’s counselor stayed motionless, the King waited until the room cleared. King Bard II was 37 years old and came to the throne when his father Brand and the Dwarvish King Dain were slain at the gates of Erebor three years before.

He was everything a King should be; tall, comely, with a rich baritone that spoke wisdom. The people of Dale were lucky to have four monarchs in a row that honored kingly virtues. He moved his own people into key positions but it was not a clean sweep. One did not discard the accumulated experience of lives well lived. His father Brand’s senior advisors were retained on what became the Council of The Arrow. Today was a meeting of the household staff but his father’s loyal man asked to attend.

This King motioned Earkinford to sit and took a chair next to him.

“My Lord, it is with some regret that I come to you with this now rather than when you took your place as liege. Hmmmm, your father was a passionate man in his rule and … other matters.” Earkinford tread carefully. This King was devoted to his Queen, an attractive lady who had born her liege two daughters. They hoped more children were in the offing. Queen Delatha was a gracious woman of the eastern clans where female piety was valued over intelligence.

King Bard’s face was a blank slate. With no comments, the counselor continued, “After your mother went to her ancestors, your father, Regent at the time, thought to take a new wife, a young woman of Esgaroth. She was fair, clever and of good parents. Many thought her beneath his station but he reasoned that he had sired your Lordship and looked to a more tranquil home life.”

By that he meant that Bard’s mother Hortencia was a shrew of the first water. When the godlings of the northern wastes called her home, mourning was restrained. Still, the King’s face registered no change.

“Your father had documents prepared according to our laws to sanctify the union and plans were underway for a ceremony like the one we are having two days hence.” The next sentence was the hard one, “Your father also took the young woman to bed with the promise of his undying fealty. As their nuptials approached, a messenger from the Marches brought a proposal of alliance to be sealed in marriage between Dale and the Lady Gloriden, who was a superb Queen in her short reign. Your father’s intended could not compete with a strategic alliance for the safety of our realm. As the new Queen did not share your father’s, ummm, appetites, the lass was offered a less exalted position. She refused and returned to her people on the lake where she brought forth a baby girl. 

“So you see, Sire, the Lady Realieth was not your only sister. Your father made a small settlement on the girl to keep things quiet and swore those of us who knew to carry that to our graves. I was prepared to do so. The King never forgave himself for his treatment of her and ordered in a private codicil to his estate that she be invited to the palace every year against the chance she would relent and join him.

“The invitation this year was for the wedding of your esteemed nephew. And this year, my liege, she accepted.”

The King, as all kings seem to do, held his chin with his fingers and kept his eyes on the advisor who, in his view, had behaved correctly. “I am glad you told me, though I honor the promise you made my father as well. We must make hard choices in our professions. I suppose I know who the others were. One is probably ready for retirement soon?”

“A forgone conclusion. Perhaps all three.”

“Do not treat yourself meanly, old friend. I would know more of the lady, and my sister.”

“I know nothing of the child, Sire. King Brand did not want them watched. All I know is that the woman is staying at the King’s Arrow with friends. However much she shared, beyond the shame it brought her family, is unknown. I suspect, and it is only that, she kept this to herself, else we should have heard of it.”

The King was not given to idle speculation. “What do you advise, advisor?”

_____________--------_____________

The week before that meeting, Nag Kath spent a few hours every day searching for a home. Dale was large enough that there were men who assisted in buying and selling property. He would probably use one of them for the transaction but he needed to know where first.

It was a lovely place with choices. He ruled-out those which were too expensive or mean. He did not want to buy a place in the heart of a district that only wanted their kind. He was no one’s kind. A guild enclave that wasn’t particular would be fine or perhaps on a border. Brenen was concerned with security. He had not learned how hard his employer was to kill. 

Private stables were exclusive to the highest hills but as in Trum Dreng, most neighborhoods had public stabling. Carriages were uncommon in Dale and there were so few man-carts that they did not have a guild. People walked. It helped that most streets were cobbled so you weren’t ankle deep in mud during the rains.

Nag Kath had narrowed the field. He wanted a view. He did not want to live near a noisy craft. Water should be nearby but not low enough to smell the fish docks. One of the little Hobbit porches would be a plus. Patrons should not feel threatened coming there. The two best areas were between the Lampmakers and Scholars or a purely residential area a few blocks below the palace grounds on the less fashionable side.

He retained an estate agent who was very good at his business and discussed things Nag Kath had not considered like the state of the roof or if ice might come in his door. His last winter was in Orthanc which was freezing cold but not leaky. They visited three homes and at his agent’s suggestion, Nag Kath offered three Florin for a house bordering the Jewelers block. 

Buyer and seller settled at three and six (silvers). The place was unoccupied and had some furniture of the former owner who moved in with her son when keeping the place was too much. Cash changed hands at the Royal Bank of Dale, he was handed two keys and the deed. A copy of the deed was also registered in the Hall of Notices for safety and taxes. He grinned thinking himself the first orc ever on a registry of deeds. When they got to the new home, Nag Kath said to Brenen, “That’s your room. Can you cook?”

That afternoon he returned to the King’s Arrow to get his bags. He was told he could apply his unused time against future meals. More importantly, he wanted to leave little cards with his new address at the desk, along with a modest tip for sharing them.

“I was told you moved on.”

He heard nothing until she spoke. Maybe she had a little of the Eldar in her blood too. The dress was a pale rose this time. He replied, “Good day, fair lady. Yes, I bought a little house near the Jewelers. I just came back to settle the bill and let folk know where to find me. I did not ask if you are here for the wedding.”

“I am. Are you going?”

“I am still waiting for my invitation. And you; Bride or Groom?”

“Let us just say; friend of the family”

“I did hear the bride is quite young, following the custom of the country.”

“Yes, she is younger than my daughter.”

“That is not possible.”

The beauty giggled, “I was young once too. My girl has set her heart at a handsome fellow in Buhr Austar whose father is Thain. He is a good man and I will approve if he asks her hand.”

So, the father was not involved. “Forgive me but I don’t even know your name, fair lady. I am Nag Kath.”

“She looked at him curiously, “You seem part Elf. The best part, I’m sure. I am Eniece. And I must be going. I wish you good fortune with your new home, Nag Kath.”

She made no noise leaving either.

_____________--------_____________

Elsewhere, Mrs. Patellence was working hard. She was vice-chair of the flower committee this year and the carnations intended for the wedding had root rot. Too much rain was the consensus. Seven other ladies of the hill were in her main room. There was nothing for it. They would have to use pink belustras. She proudly showed her new family picture as the committee arrived and was now discussing how to get those flowers up to the palace, all except Mrs. Eusta who was having a second look. 

We need to talk about Bernetta Eusta for a moment. She was a minor beauty of the city years ago and married old Ferd Eusta, the silver tycoon. He rented her youth, but that was all he got while it lasted. The woman wasn’t intentionally hurtful. She just had the tact of a cave bear. Old Ferd wrote a huge bequest for her in his estate. He later begrudged that as his ardor waned but he never changed the will. When the old boy went to his ancestors beyond the circles of the world, her stepson thought it a bargain to be rid of her and transferred the bank credit the day after the funeral.

That same bank account made her the permanent flower chair and now she was looking at the dowdy Patellence family and the wonders the artist had done their unfortunate daughter. In the same thoughtless manner that defined her entire life, she said to the committee, “Just think what he could do with the groom.”

It did not take long. The man looked impatient. “Are you Naks”

“Nag Kath.”

“Close enough. The official portraitist cannot assist with the noble wedding tomorrow and I have come to find his replacement.”

“I hope the man is well.”

“No.”

“I see. I was about to have fruit and tea. Come in.” When seated, Nag Kath asked, “I am sorry. I did not catch your name.”

“Tanisditter.”

“An eastern name?”

A sore subject too. “Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Tanisditter, how can I help?”

Other than where he had to be and when, the terse Tanisditter knew almost nothing of the subject, pose, size or background. The functionary seemed annoyed to be asked questions no real man could answer. Tanisditter thought this fellow far too pretty for the land of Northmen and was one of the few who did not see the Elf in man’s garb. And he was an artist!

Nag Kath would be at the Hall of Grace by eleven tomorrow. Information the former soldier should have managed without being asked was how to get past the sentries. Tanisditter produced a copper token to present at the gate that was eerily close to Nag Kath’s Uruk toglakz medallion. The palace henchman was probably not the man to negotiate payment either so there was nothing else to say.

That morning he gathered his supplies for the palace. Vandery was probably a luxury too. Almost no one but soldiers rode here. Even Lords and Ladies walked if the weather was fair. From his new home on the northeast side of the city to the palace gate was a fifteen minute stroll. 

He handed the token to the gate guard who called his corporal over. They looked at it and him. Then the older man dropped it in his pocket and said with practiced courtesy, “Thank you sir. If you will make your way along the path and turn left at the building with the blue shutters, the next door is your destination.” With a smile he opened the gate.

The room was bustling with activity. He was not told to look for anyone but being the only six and a half foot man in the place, they would find him. Most of the crowd left shortly for the ceremony further up the path. He mooched around the room and helped himself to berries the guests hadn’t finished. Two hours later, an elderly retainer approached him and asked, “Are you Mr. Kass?” Nag Kath said he was.

“The plan has changed. Please come with me to the palace.”

Once in the building the Elf asked, “Can I have a look at work that has been done before so I know the style?”

The old boy thought for a second and decided he had the time. “Follow me.”

There was a small hall with diffused sunlight that had a section of wall dedicated to drawings and paintings of noted persons. The fellow said, “These are not wedding portraits, but they are close.”

They were a variety of sizes and papers. This was just the sort of thing Dale’s new artist did well. He thanked the retainer and followed him to a lovely room in the Elvish style with tall windows along a south face. The centerpiece was a long, polished wood table. Somewhat unusually, there was a suit of armor in the corner and crossed halberds. Elves don’t display weapons they aren’t using.

The wedded couple made their way towards Nag Kath who stood and bowed. He thought they could have done this before or after but having drawings done on the day was further proof that the parties had a deal. 

The old Hobbit was a bit behind the times. The groom was not a handsome man but in the last few years he had grown into his face. And he had a farm-boy grin that put Nag Kath’s to shame. He was thrilled to be married. The blushing bride was indeed quite young. They liked them young and fertile in this land. She was attractive. None of her features were striking but they did not fight each other. That would make her easy to draw.

Nag Kath shook hands with Lord Devoren Carstors, bowed to the new Lady Carstors and asked them to sit. Portraits here, as in most of Middle Earth, were done individually, probably because a picture of the pair froze the moment for better or worse. 

Nag Kath did the bride first. She was happy too but very nervous. Fresh off the farm after a lifetime of close supervision, this evening was much on her mind. It could be the first night of relative freedom or the start of pain and suffering as explained by women whose job it was to keep her from her budding impulses. The Elf’s first effort was good and he turned to the groom. That did not go as well. Half way through he said, “My Lord, I think having you a bit in profile would be more flattering.” He replaced the sheet with one off the bottom and asked, “Could I get you to face a little more towards your lady?”

This picture went fine. He still took some liberties with things the young man could not help and they were delighted. The former portraitist must have worked slowly. Nag Kath was well under his allotted time. With the bride beaming at her man, Nag Kath made bold to ask, “If your friends can wait a little longer, I could draw you together in a third.”

They grinned and pulled their chairs close. This sketch was not a masterwork but it was the best of the day. They both smiled at each other, not the intimidating frowns to put peasants cap-in-hand at the manor. 

The Lord and Lady rose with Nag Kath and all three bowed. The man who brought him here said, “Thank you for the extra care, Mr. Kass. I think they should keep that work for themselves.”

“That was my thought also. I need to touch these up for display. May I do that here?”

“Yes, thank you. I must see to matters but will return shortly.”

Nag Kath stood at a broad window sill to add the last strokes. Halfway through, King Bard, Leddifur, Finrales and Galoxyn burst into the room followed by two men in livery. The King was agitated and exclaimed, “I thought this was in hand! I need those two working together. She thinks to marry Conath’s son?!”

“Yes, Sire. Thought that is not commonly known.”

The King looked over at Nag Kath who bowed and stood by his papers. Bard assumed he was with the Elvish ambassador who was just here and always seemed to know everything anyway. The whole town would know before the day was out which meant someone would tell his wife. He had married one Thain’s pious daughter and a rival Thain’s son was marrying his bastard half-sister?! “By Ordath who watches over simpletons and cripples! What would you have me do now?!”

Each advisor offered or agreed with a version of bringing the Queen’s father Fändul to the table with Thain Conath. Then they would dissuade Eniece and her daughter from the considered union without alarming the Queen.

Nag Kath had neither been included nor dismissed. The King looked at him and demanded, “You know all the answers. What do you advise?”

Well, as long as he asked; “Embrace the wronged woman as family, treat the girl as your long lost sister and marry her to a rich yokel with no political ambitions.”

“And my wife?”

“Take her upstairs and make her glad she married the King.”

That was a very un-Elvish answer. It was good no one had anything in their mouth. 

The King put his hands flat on the table. Staring at his reflection he growled, “Out!” Nobody moved for a second. “OOOUUUT!!!”

Advisors scurried through the door along with Nag Kath. He thought of taking the drawings. If they wanted them, they could sing for their supper. No, the young couple had nothing to do with this and he wished them joy. He did get his tube and was out with the last of the counselors. Orders like that do not apply to guards. The King jerked his head and they followed the fleeing civilians.

Nag Kath kept going downstairs. This was not the splash he envisioned. Maybe someone would inquire at the King’s Arrow with his payment. The rest of the men listened to what they thought was the sound of a decorative halberd being smashed against the suit of armor. Two minutes later the doors opened and the King commanded, “In!" After his advisors trooped by the King asked, "Why is it I got my best advice from a complete stranger? Who was that Elf? I’ve never seen him before.”

Galoxyn answered, “Kass something, Sire. That is the fellow we hired yesterday to draw Lord and Lady Carstors.”

The King stared as if he could crush his advisor’s heart with his eyes but asked gently, “What?”

“Yes My Lord. Our portraitist had a stroke. This man is an itinerant artist one of the flower women knew.”

The King walked over to the pair sketch. Looking at them vented some of his steam. The young couple was lost in each other with their lives ahead of them, just as he had been twelve years ago with his lady wife. The smile took ten seconds from start to fullness. Then he strode downstairs with the toadies in his wake.

The King nodded to his bowing subjects in the reception hall. Spotting the woman was easy. He had never seen her but she could not be lost in a crowd. He approached her and bowed deeply, “My Lady, I have just learned of wrongs done you. I will repair those to the best of my ability. From this minute forward, your daughter is my sister and will be honored as such. I have a few related matters to attend, but I hope we can meet during your stay. Please excuse me.”

Eniece bowed as he walked over to the Queen who was out of earshot but observing. With his warmest voice he said, “My dear, please come with me.” He only used ‘my dear’ when he was amorous. It had been a while. Oh thank you, Yavanna! It is time for a boy!


	30. A Citizen Soldier

**_Chapter 30_ **

**_A Citizen Soldier_ **

He was a citizen of someplace. Isengard didn’t count – either time. Nag Kath spent the next two months exploring every inch of the city figuring he would visit the outside when he was done. With Dale’s only other portraitist retired, he got a slow but rising flow of commissions, more than enough to pay his modest bills and that much left at the end of the month.

There was no Artists Guild to tithe. Guild districts were nations unto themselves. They had their own street names, rules, slang, food, manners and complaints. Cottage industries policed their ranks. The Guardi was for everyone else and knew to mind their own business. Some Guilds were more genteel than others. Some, like the Gravediggers, did not have their own districts. The scholars were like scholars everywhere. This lot did not have much of a library. But this was also where he would ask about reading tutors very soon.

Guild charters were granted and renewed by royal authority. They entailed powers to enforce their codes among members but the crown would not use the Guardi to settle disputes. And guilds could not be used as a cover for organized thievery. Thieves had their own un-chartered guild. 

In addition to reading, Nag Kath wanted to learn archery. He felt he could not be defeated in combat. But the child in the hayloft could have killed him. His whole company of Uruks was annihilated by bowmen plinking them one at a time. That was the one weapon to bring him low and he meant to master it.

He got his opportunity in late summer. Every year after harvest, all of the city and rural levies held militia training for at least two weeks. In some towns, men harvested the field one day and brought weapons back the next. Fit men between 17 and 39 were expected to participate for a week every year, though many over and under that age came because they felt themselves, and wanted to be counted as, soldiers. Splitting the training among two or more weeks kept from depleting the workforce. There were countless conditions, excuses and bribes to keep from participating but most eligible men came. In many cases, it was easier than their employment. 

As a property and horse-owning tradesman, he was eligible for one of the elite, non-professional levies of the city. Farm lads were infantry. Some specialty troops like sappers or artillery trained longer, which included pay the rankers did not get. Up the ladder; there were a bakers-dozen units in the city that trained year-round, marched in parades and held their heads high as defenders of Dale.

In the realm of Bard the Bowman, he could learn to shoot. Most of the city militiamen were defensive troops who were taught to fire down from turrets or crenels. Nag Kath was more interested in level, long-distance targeting. The finest of those archers were in the professional army but their instructors were seconded to the militias for late summer drills. Brenen was told to find where the best teachers would be. On the first day of enrollment, a tall, pale recruit walked in the tent of Sergeant Alfus Dedlan and said he wanted the man to teach him the weapon.

All Sergeants are alike, it doesn’t matter what army. An Uruk Sergeant was the same as a Rohirrim. They are the toughest, smartest and most practical troops under Arien’s sun because they survive the harshest tests. Dedlan was sitting in a folding chair ticking off a list of which regulars to expect. He finished that and burped before looking up at the beardless lad standing at-ease. “Are you in my call, boy?”

“No sir.”

“Then get you to the green levy, son. This troop is for experienced men.”

“I have experience in combat. I was told you are the man to see about archery.”

Sergeant Dedlan had some leisure. Every one of the archers on his list knew what they were doing. The man spit something brown out of the side of his mouth and said, “We’ll see about that.”

Walking out of the tent he called to a burly fellow loading the bow rack, “Burry, you old toad. Front and center.”

Burry swaggered slowly over spitting something brown of his own. The man smirked but said nothing.

“Sarn't Burry, this lad wants to learn to shoot, says he’s seen action.” Nag Kath was wearing the same clothes he wore slaying the rebels. Perhaps they would notice the blood.

Burry drawled, “I wouldn’t have thought so, Sarge.” Looks a little green to me.”

Dedlan said, “Son, get two of those beater swords from that pile. You show us what you can do, maybe you’ll learn the bow.”

The Elf had his hair over his ears and wore his traveling hat because most men coming did. Helmets were only required in live drills, in part because they made good stew pots when pilfered. Nag Kath walked over to the stack of wooden practice swords and chose two that were reasonably straight. Handing one to Burry he said quietly, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Something in that sentence made the man spit more brown juice. While all this was going on, eight or nine archers came as a group to register early. Training did not start at the crack of dawn. They had to be here at the eight-bell but were expected to have eaten breakfast and tended their business first. This looked like free entertainment so they gathered by the draw line. 

Burry slashed slowly at Nag Kath and missed by inches. Nag Kath drew away from Dedlan for room to swing. Burry came at him somewhat in jest using the traditional, single-sword moves taught to children and greenbottoms, a bit like the salvager in Orthanc.

But this was no insecure scratcher. The big Sergeant was making sure the troops in his Lake Rangers could handle their end of desperate fighting. Nag Kath parried Burry’s swings, but not so easily that it seemed so. A few minutes in without any telling blows, the big man became more earnest. Nag Kath continued to fend-off the strikes but made no offensive thrusts of his own. And just as with the miner, he knew what was coming.

Burry grew tired of playing with the brat. He came in hard with a professional combination yielding a wicked welt on his forearm. Another attack and an ear was burning red. The third yielded him a thump in his personal area he never saw and his fourth thrust, shouting in rage, landed him on his bottom with blood dripping from his nose. The men along the draw line had been expecting a raucous good time watching the veteran embarrass the teenager. They were quiet as the grave. Maybe the greenbottom got in some lucky strikes, but none of them wanted any part of Sergeant Burry.

Nag Kath tossed the toy sword back into the pile and took a dipper of water from the clean-barrel. Kneeling by the aching soldier, he gave him the ladle said quietly, “I owe you a pitcher of your favorite when you are ready.” Then he walked in front of the tent and asked the stunned Master Sergeant, “Who do I see about a bow?”

“We got bows! Be here tomorrow at the seven-bell.” Nag Kath nodded and walked across the wheat stubble. Burry rose with some effort and lurched to the tent in view of men arriving to register. Sergeant Dedlan said softly, “Good fight Burr. Fraid he got the better of ya.”

Burry had taken worse. His pride suffered more. He drew from his deep well of humor said just as softly, “No Al. He could have killed me anytime he wanted.”

_____________--------_____________

The next day, Nag Kath arrived before seven. Burry had a few bruises but he was fit and showed no hard feelings. The regulars should be here at eight but there was already quite a throng. Sergeant Dedlan wanted an hour to see what else this kid had. 

Some discipline was called for. “Kath! First things first. You do what I say when I say it and nothing else, right!”

“Aye, Sarge.” 

“You don’t hit nobody, or kill nobody less I say so, right?”

“Aye, Sarge.”

“Good. You ever handled a longbow?”

“No sir.”

“I’m not a sir! I’m Sarn’t Dedlan!”

Nag Kath thought he should have remembered that from Rohan. “No, Sarn't!”

The Sarge handed him what looked a better than average bow from the rack and took his own off the end along with a dozen practice-tipped arrows.

At the draw line, “All right, feet like this, keep your left arm straight, fingers like this on the grip.” Nag Kath mimicked his motions. “Good. Nock the arrow between the red threads by holding the arrow between these fingers.” He held up his hand. “Good, now pull back slowly until your knuckle is even with your eye. You’re going to sight down the arrow to the target. Watch here.”

The target was a tightly-bound bundle of grain stalks thirty paces away with a red rag stretched lengthwise down the center. Sarge said, “Awright. Your dandies use a circle-target to keep score. You miss a foot to either side, you still kiss the maid. In war, your misses have to be up and down. Hit a Ling in the eye or the foot, he’s a casualty.”

Sergeant Dedlan smoothly drew and put an arrow just right of the red stripe chest high, a killing shot unless the enemy was heavily armored. It seemed effortless despite the force he applied.

“Awright, you try.”

Nag Kath repeated the motion and loosed. The arrow missed the straw bundle by four feet and bounced off an oak log next to it. Practice tips are thin steel caps with dulled points that will penetrate a pile of straw but not wood. Hitting a man would hurt like blazes but do no real damage unless it pierced a vital point. Barbed combat tips are designed to slice in and do worse damage on the way out.

“Awright, son. That wasn’t bad but your breathing was wrong. Breathe in on the draw and exhale on the release. It’s all one motion.”

Nag Kath tried again. He still missed the red stripe but the arrow hit the bundle and sunk deep in the straw. Dedlan took another shot with a heavy pull and split the red, sinking the shaft a bit more than half way in. Some of that was to demonstrate his breathing and some was to see just how hard the teenager launched that shaft.

“Once more!”

“Aye, Sarge.” This one was closer to the red and only the feathers were sticking out of the straw. Nag Kath shot the other seven arrows and put three in the red. Most of the men arriving were more accurate but they had done this for years and did it with pride.

Dedlan called, “Wait there.” He emerged from the tent with his own combat weapon and a dozen bladed arrows.

“Let me see that wrist. Here, tie the guard around your arm and buckle it around your thumb. Good. Now, see here; this is a Northman bow. The ends bend forward. They don’t spring back until the center is taught, takes more fight to draw. There’s bone and horn in-between the wood. We’re going to use real arrows so watch where you point that thing. I’ll show ya one.”

The expert archer repeated his same routine except the draw was slightly slower and he only held the fully taught position an instant. With this weapon, you either drew and released or relaxed if the shot wasn’t there. The target was the oak bole next to the straw. His release was poetry and the arrow head sunk more than half the depth of the head. These were game arrows without the back barbs but the sharpened sides were as wide as war heads.

“Awright! You try.”

Nag Kath saw everyone looking at him and remembered his breathing. He practiced something like that in his thoughtful resting. The first arrow missed the log. His second skinned bark off the round. The third was near the center. Its head went in full and the shaft splintered as though someone had smashed it at the nock with a sledge.

“I am sorry, Sarge. I will pay for that.”

“We got more. Try again.”

Nag Kath did. He thought he heard a few coppers changing hands in the audience. After five more shots that all hit the log towards the edges he said, “I would like to shoot quickly. Is that approved?”

Sarge spit and looked at Burry who deadpanned, “I’ll have to check with the Lieutenant.”

The Elf remembered the Eregion trooper laying his arrows along side each other in case he needed to shoot without taking his eyes from the target. He stabbed the tips of the last four arrows in the turf next to his leg.

This had reached the point of entertainment for everyone but the Sarge, Burry and Nag Kath. The Elf closed his eyes and thought of his breathing. Slowly nocking the first, he drew and fired, repeating that motion at speed. It wasn’t the “Fast” but it was certainly Elvish. All four arrows were within eight inches of each other. 

Burry was standing next to Dedlan while Nag Kath was shooting and asked in a whisper, “Ever seen anything like that?”

Sarge spit and drawled, “Once.”

Nag Kath looked at the viewers and eased closer to the two men. Those arriving maintained a respectful distance but they had to prepare for their own training. In a voice no louder than theirs, “Burry, I think you should claim that pitcher tonight. I need to tell you both something.”

Burry thought of the most expensive place sergeants were welcome and said, “Stag and Corner. Seven of the bell.”

_____________--------_____________

The two men walked in and saw Nag Kath at a back table. The table next to it had the chairs seat-down on the top. They sauntered over as Nag Kath stood to shake hands. The recruit started the conversation by saying, “The serving woman could not say which ale was better so I got a pitcher of each.”

Good thinking, lad!

“Thank you for joining me. Sergeant Burry, are you recovered?”

The burly man was still a little sore, but not about to admit it. “Had worse. You pulled your blows.” The last sentence came with a glance that made it a question, answered with the slightest of nods.

Nag Kath spoke softly, “This is between us soldiers. I wanted to learn archery and I am in your debt. But I had not thought to make my lessons so public.” He smiled, “Though I think the man in the green cap did well with his wagers.” The Sergeants grinned too.

“I am new to your fair city. I have not been appreciated further south. My hope is to start a new life here. Sooner or later, everyone will know about me, but later is better, so folk can adjust.”

The soldiers were thinking this fellow had left with violence in his wake or the wrong man’s purse. Was he learning to defend himself against angry husbands? He was a pretty thing, perhaps a lifelong bachelor? 

Nag Kath continued, “I have a small studio for art and drawing.”

An artist! Well that confirmed lifelong bachelor. Still, this was one not to provoke.

Nag Kath had purposely given them forgivable flaws to soften what came next. “I am not what I seem.” He pulled his hair back behind one ear. 

Dedlan cried, “Ha, told ya!” 

“I am not an Elf of the Elves. And I am very young, even by men’s count of years, inexperienced in many things, but not killing. That is why I would like to train away from prying eyes. I would not make myself a challenge for every rough lad trying to impress his lady-fair.”

The Sergeants kept quiet but had not neglected their ale. Burry was the first to finish his mug and sample the other pitcher. Dedlan asked, “What do you want from us.”

“I want to be an excellent archer, hit targets on the move, understand the weapon, and how to be less in-front of it. I offer either or both of you side-work for discreet tutoring, if your service to Dale allows such employ.”

When Nag Kath said no more, Burry twisted his mug in the ring of water on the table and said, “I believe our liege permits that … after hours.”

Dedlan took a long pull before he spoke again, “I think Burry is your man, Kath. He can spit a partridge on the wing. I am southbound after the city-call to train-up teachers on the borders.” He grinned, “Too much gout and stout out there!”

Burry added, “And barley malt.”

Dedlan said ‘Aye’ just as Nag Kath said, “I have tasted that. Folk say spirits do not affect such as me, but even one left me dizzy. I dare not think of the wreckage if a party of Dwarves found it to their liking.”

That image set both Sergeants laughing as they topped their mugs. Nag Kath had only put a little ale in his before they arrived so as to seem ready for another. The tavern was filling with thirsty, well-heeled trainees wondering why they could not take the empty table. The maid got more than a night’s tips to hold it for important guests arriving shortly after the tall, blonde man left.

The Elf said, “Burry, we will speak again after our city archers have sharpened their eyes. Here is my card. Sergeant Dedlan, what do I owe you for not throwing me out of your tent?”

“That is part of my duty, young man.” Chuckling, “A lamp maker who reported drunk got to chop your arrowheads out of the log. I made him leave the one arrow in to show others how you splintered the shaft. They only do that when they hit dead straight.”

Nag Kath thought they might conclude but there was a deal more to discuss. One was that he needed to visit Fridth the bowyer who had a shop with his brother Fridar the fletcher. He must get the bow from the one and the arrows from the other, not the other way round. Burry added that he should specify a Dun Breathen pull, a baseman’s quiver with a variety of long arrows sporting different tips and goose, not turkey, quills.

Dedlan told him to chew the nails on his string fingers smooth so they would not snag and have Fridth include an outside-lacing arm-guard. All three had a good time for another hour. Nag Kath ordered a third pitcher and food for the archers before he left. 

He walked home pleased. A good day! It was too late to visit the bow-maker but he would attend to that first thing tomorrow so the weapon would be ready when Burry called.

_____________--------_____________

Home was not so pleasant. Someone was crying inside. Nag Kath cautiously opened the door and found Brenen comforting a blonde woman sitting on the high hearth step holding her face in her hands. They heard the door shut and looked up. Brenen had a bloody nose. The woman had a red eye that would be purple in an hour and a deep cut in her lower lip that had only just stopped bleeding.

Brenen immediately got between the Elf and woman to defend her. “I’m sorry, Nag Kath. I didn’t know what to do. He went on a rage this time.”

So this was his mother. Brenen did not know him as well as he thought if the lad felt he must keep the Elf from tossing the beaten woman outside. Discipline was a husband’s right. Interfering was complicity. Such women were shunned in most of Middle Earth for the trouble following them. Nag Kath slowly walked past Brenen and knelt next to her. “Here, let me see fair lady.”

She could not keep her swollen lip from trembling but she held back new tears. He gently brushed the hair from her face and considered the bruise around her eye. It had been a glancing blow. The lip caught the second punch full. She was on the verge of flight as his hand glowed silver on her cheek for a few moments, healing the broken blood vessels. Then he gently touched her lips. Brenen got his looks from her. She was still comely, but fifteen years of nights like this left cares that told. His ma was tall, like the women of Rohan, and her hair was as long and blonde as theirs. Most peoples of Dale had darker hair.

Nag Kath walked over to a little rug from Rhûn he bought the week before and sat cross-legged. Looking to Brenen, “You want to tell me what happened?”

He looked at his ma then answered, “Da found I was holding out on him, gave me this” touching his finger to his nose. “Mother tried to stop him and she got worse. He’d had a skin-full so we ran to the chandlers’ sector cause he couldn’t follow us through the alleys. Then we came here. I swear, Nag Kath, I didn’t mean to bring this to your door.”

The Elf looked to the woman, “I am Nag Kath.”

She had gathered herself, “I am Aleurn. Please do not turn Brenen out. He is a good boy.”

“Calm yourself, dear lady. We will think of something.” Looking to Brenen sternly he barked, “Have you learned to cook yet?!”

They heard the smack of the boy’s lips opening but nothing came out.

“Get coppers from the bowl and fetch us a fish-bake with lennas from Jeevar’s. Off you go!” The boy scampered out the door. He would use his own groats.

Aleurn managed a small smile at the Elf and said, “He can’t boil water.” She rose after daubing her nose on her sleeve and walked to the kitchen. In this house it was a corner of the large main room. The two bachelors had almost nothing to flavor their food. Brenen was back quickly with one of the ready-made plates Mr. Jeevar kept hot for people returning to empty larders. What they did not sell tonight would be tomorrow’s stew.

She smelled the fish with a practiced nose and chose two of their limited seasonings. Nag Kath would never mention this to old-man Jeevar but she made it better. After a few bites, Nag Kath asked Brenen, “Didn’t your friend Patellence say their cook was moving home to care for her mother?”

Life went on. The bow-maker reminded him of the boot-maker in Trum Dreng – abrasive on the outside and abrasive inside too. But he knew his business. The bow Burry said to get needed a variety of materials. The man had them in stock but they needed to be assembled in order to flex correctly. Nag Kath showed him the strength of his pull on completed bows and the old boy agreed with Burry on the second-highest standard tension.

Aleurn got a job cooking for the Patellence family. Three of them were pleased but the daughter’s life was still an unending misery. Ma, da and young Uldath enjoyed their meals under her smiling portrait.


	31. Learned Ways

**_Chapter 31_ **

**_Learned Ways_ **

It was time to read. Nag Kath actually knew a lot of letters, and their sounds, but wasn’t sure which were common and which were Elvish. Another virtue was that despite his accent, he spoke a better grade of Westron than country folk. Gandalf’s stern diction helped him speak almost as if he was reading so there wasn’t orcish trouble with tenses and possessives. 

He wandered through the Scholar’s district often in hunting for houses. Most scholars lived with fine families as in-house tutors but they did have guild meetings in the tavern that served as their Hall on Thursday night. The agenda was more about the business of their craft than the craft itself. Loitering outside, Nag Kath spotted a likely fellow who was answering questions of others when they adjourned.

The next morning Nag Kath came to call. The man’s home was his office. He did not lead the monastic life of many in Minas Tirith. There was a plump wife chasing two girls who might be twins running and squealing in their little square garden. Nag Kath knocked on the door. The scholar opened it without peeking first and said, “Good morning, sir.”

“And good morning to you, sir. I am Nag Kath and I came to inquire about reading and writing.”

The scholar was about forty with the confusion of thinning hair so common to his profession. He had a pair of half-spectacles in his blouse pocket. The tall man wasn’t selling something so he was shown to a small office next to the kitchen. His woman quieted the girls.

“I am Fergus Dol-Evath. Would you like tea?” Nag Kath suspected it was not ready and he would not be here long so he honestly said he had his earlier.

“Please, Mr. Kath, how can I assist?”

“I would like to learn to read and write the common tongue.”

Scholar Dol-Evath had never been asked that before. His students, and anyone they knew, only spoke that language. As the man pondered, Nag Kath added, “I brought some things that might help.” He took a handful of papers out of his satchel. Most were pictures including writing or maps with the legends reproduced.

“I made or copied all of these.”

The scholar looked through enough to get the gist. Towards the bottom of the pile was an Elvish page Gandalf discarded and Nag Kath kept because the back side was blank. Dol-Evath looked at that and pursed his lips slightly. Then he looked up and realized the applicant was an Elf, or one of their breeds thought vanished from this land. Shouldn’t he read and write all tongues? All that mattered was that the young fellow was interested in hiring him and didn’t smell like fish.

Scholar Dol-Evath had standards. He would not keep pupils who did not try. That was mostly for enforcement from the parents of indolent children. Adult pupils were already motivated. “Mr. Kath, I recommend meeting for one hour three times per week. You would need to study on your own about as much. Does your schedule permit that?”

“I have all the time in the world.”

“Now, we can do this here or at your home. There is a small premium for me coming to you. You are looking at two groats a week.” The scholar let that float to see if the prospect balked.

The Elf replied, “My house is better. I’m in the Oscent, three doors up from Mortner’s bakery.”

The scholar said, “My ten appointment tomorrow is one block over. Shall we say eleven at your home … maybe a shade after?”

“That will be fine. Here is a card with the address.”

“Did you write this yourself, Mr. Kath?”

“Just Nag Kath. And yes, I drew that, though someone showed me the letters.”

“You have a fair hand.” The scholar rose. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow at eleven of the clock. Umm, just one more question, sir, you didn’t copy this, did you?” He held the Elvish page.

“No. Last year I helped prepare archives bound for the Undying Lands. The valuable ones were carefully preserved, but piles were just duplicates or ledger lists. I’m not sure what this is. You are welcome to it.”

The man thanked him again and thought this would be a good student. And it was a fair bet Thursen could make heads from tails of that parchment.

_____________--------_____________

Fall was closing in. Brenen re-grouted the stove. No mice were seen so they did not get a cat, though one nearby sang for their fish scraps. Brenen’s da never came by for the beating he deserved and the Patellences were delighted with Aleurn. She lived in their back room. The wondrous cook came by every so often to make dinner for her two hapless men. She was attractive now that she was happy and safe. The two bachelors hoped she would meet a man who would treat her well, just as Dornlas wished for his sister.

Burry and Nag Kath took Vandery and A’mash to the hills twice a week for two months. They swung a log from a branch as a moving target. It did not take long until Nag Kath hit it every time. A silver tenth found a good home in the man’s vest each month. Burry also explained how to test a string and stretch new ones, how to check the fletching and shaft for true. They should be kept from water and sun if possible and the bow needed a little wax every so often to keep from drying. Then there was how to strap the quiver to get arrows out quickly or carry them nocked with pressure for a rapid draw. Burry swore he never saw the Elf’s arm emptying half the quiver one time. 

Brenen met Bard about once a week. According to Bard, Brenen’s dad did not seem interested in getting his son or woman back, at least, he had not asked Bard’s father who loathed him as much as they did. Bard did say the clerk at the King’s Arrow gave one of Nag Kath’s cards to a guest.

His reading lessons were going well too. Scholar Dol-Evath’s syllabus was for beginners but he soon compressed lessons because the Elf made such quick progress. Usually the tutor had to spend more time on writing than reading but this student could write anything he learned as well as Dol-Evath. It was an elegant script without flourish and quite readable. Nag Kath let Brenen eavesdrop and then they studied the assignments together.

Dol-Evath’s fellow scholar was initially impressed with the Elvish document. It lost luster when translated to the ingredients for a rash ointment. Still, it was genuine First Age, which made it a valuable antique some rich farmer simply must have on his wall.

_____________--------_____________

Three months after buying his house, Nag Kath received a letter in a beautiful hand inviting him to dinner at an address inside the palace complex in ten day’s time. This invitation should be shown at the gate. It was from Eniece Thurne. 

The next morning he went to Gurrend and Bailish in Burdon Street to have new clothes made. He explained to the fitter that he was going to a mystery dinner and where. The man wanted to make something with “Elvish Elements” which was quickly discouraged. Nag Kath did not want to try to look like an Elf. People could make their own assumptions. Since he was Elf-shaped, it probably would have those elements anyway. A cobbler two stores up was put to work on dress shoes.

The guard at the gate studied the invitation upside down. His superior keeping warm in the kiosk saw his confusion and came out after donning an oil slick. The corporal pinched the invitation from the top so it was right-side up to him and nodded to his junior. Both smiled at Nag Kath and he was admitted.

The drizzle was gone but there was a mist that said it was nearly winter. Residents were already wearing their furs and woolens. He arrived at an impressive home in the ambassadorial block. A small woman in brown greeted him at the door and took his coat and hat. Around the room were seven people drinking from small, glazed cups and enjoying finger-food.

A young woman approached him smiling and offered her hand. Nag Kath took it with a bow, assuming this was the new Princess. She said, “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Kath. I am Lady Ardatha.

“I am honored, Your Highness. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“That was my mother’s doing, but my fiancé and I owe you a great deal.”

The Princess was an attractive girl but did not have the delicate features of her mother. Big noses and strong brows of fierce Northmen did not favor their daughters. She only got half of those which seemed a small price in the scheme of things. They were shortly joined by another fierce Northman. His own nose had been badly broken but it did not take away from the impressive visage. He reached out and said, “Thank you for coming, I am Lancer Reyald Conath.”

“A pleasure, Lancer. I am Nag Kath. I hope the storm has not delayed others.” 

The Princess answered, “Another couple may be late. Mother keeps things small.”

Young Conath said warmly, “Let me introduce you.” Walking to a couple at the finger-food table, the Lancer gently took the man’s arm, “Tobar, Estileth, this is Eniece’s friend Nag Kath. Nag Kath, please greet Mr. and Mrs. Rulveric of Esgaroth.”

Both of them smiled and nodded but did not shake hands or speak until the clam-spread on toasted rounds was chewed and removed from their fingers.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Kath. I hear you are new to Dale.”

“Indeed I am, Mr. Rulveric. Though I am settling-in nicely. I fear I have not visited your fair city.”

“You’re not missing much.” His wife poked him in the ribs. “My lady reminds me that we live in a wonderful place and that I should appreciate it more.”

Mrs. Rulveric added, “He means to say the lake has the best of friends.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I meant to say.” One could not help but like them.

Eniece emerged from the kitchen. Nag Kath was the only guest she had not greeted. Gliding to him with both hands offered, he kissed them as she asked, “Have you have met everyone?”

“We are working on that.” Appreciating her beauty he added, “You have outdone yourself.”

“Thank you …” and much more softly “… for everything.” Quickly surveying the room, “Now all we need are the Garrigas”. Nag Kath, we have wine, ale or barley spirits.” A man in white livery was standing by a sampling of all three.

“Just tea, if you do not think that dreary.”

“Not at all.” Hot tea was found instantly. 

Mr. Rulveric chimed-in, “Goodness, woman! You’ve invited a Valaran!”

Nag Kath looked at him, “They are here too? And no, I just want to warm up.”

Undaunted, Mr. Rulveric chortled, “That’s the spirit! I don’t know about here in Dale but there are a number of families in Lake Town. Nice folk, very respectable, of course. Now, you are not an Elf I’ve seen before. Though that is mostly from a distance, mind.”

“I am but part Elf. It leads to confusion.” If people insisted on following that line, Nag Kath sometimes vaguely implied he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket to kill the conversation. That might be awkward for the newly-acknowledged Princess. A few people knew the Articles of Union had been signed but those were nowhere to be found now. Nag Kath did not even know what those were but would steer the discussion to equally vague family disagreements.

There was no need. Her intended did some steering of his own, “Eniece tells me you are come from Gondor.” Yes, he had mentioned Minas Tirith. Some of his patrons knew. It did not matter. If she knew, everyone did, so he would build from there.

“Yes, that is where I trained as an artist.”

Princess Ardatha exclaimed, “Oh, you are the fellow who drew Lord and Lady Carstors. Mother, please don’t think me vulgar, but I would so much like for Nag Kath to capture the Lieutenant and me, if Nag Kath is willing.”

The artist said, “I would be honored, your Highness. It is the custom in many places to do such sittings at the ceremony, but I have discovered before or after puts people more at ease. Will you be in Dale long?”

“Another week, at least. But you simply must come to the wedding also.” After winking at her knight she said conspiratorially, “I need to fill-out mother’s quarter of the hall.”

Mrs. Rulveric thought that very romantic and that their own children should be cleaned and saved for posterity. Nag Kath continued introducing himself to the two other couples, the Turlieis and the Norendras along with elderly Mr. Teves who had a hearing trumpet on a lanyard around his neck. 

A knock had everyone look at the door. The maid opened it and admitted a couple somewhere near fifty. He was a serious-looking man who handed the maid a black overcoat and hat like Nag Kath’s. She was matronly with a face that could be either joyous or fearsome by slightly changing the corners of her mouth. Their perfect hostess greeted them and brought them to the circle. “Everyone, these are Edmand and Luna Garrigas. Please introduce yourselves.” 

Garrigas bowed to Ardatha and then wondered, “Kath? Any relation to the Kaths of Gladden?”

“Not that I know, Mr. Garrigas. I am new to this side of the mountains.” He was quite sure he was no relation. Nag was his pod name. It was probably one of the runes destroyed over the breeding pools. Kath is the number six in orcish to keep track. 

“Place is thick with them, though they don’t look like you.”

“Then they must be handsome indeed!”

All thought that droll but no one had a retort. Their hostess intervened, “I am sorry to rush you Ed and Luna but dinner is hot and ready.”

He stated, “No need to stand on ceremony for me.” Mrs. Garrigas looked like she did not wait for meals either so the company went to the formal table in the next room. Eniece broke-up the couples. The Princess and Lancer had place cards with a chair in-between. The others found their seats fast enough that Nag Kath did not have to guess his. He could read and write his own name now but the exquisite calligraphy of the cards looked almost Elvish. He was one chair apart from Eniece. Did they think him her companion? He wanted that with all his heart but with this woman, he might be the last to know. 

Conversation did not expose orcish secrets. They were interested in art and his travels. He told them of helping archive ancient documents for their rightful owners, including papers and artifacts coming here. One was a jewel encrusted goblet of silver. The Dwarves thought it might be a mithril alloy because of the sheen but could not test it without damage. 

Dinner was superb. He did not touch the meat. Thankfully, it was not mixed in with all the other foods. To finish there was a small helping of milk and eggs with honey that was bitterly cold and delicious. He was warned not to eat it too quickly. 

There wasn’t much after-dinner conversation. The Princess was staying with her mother here in a royal suite and Reyald walked to a family apartment a block away. Garrigas never quite reconciled that this Kath didn’t know the Gladden Kaths. His wife was less confused and graciously helped her husband bundle on his coat. Their carriage was called and the Rulverics accepted a ride to where they were staying with friends in the city now that it was drizzling again. 

After waving goodbye from the door, Eniece returned to Nag Kath and said, “Please do not think me forward but I would like to enjoy a cup of tea and hear what you told his Lordship. There are so many versions about. Would you mind?”

She gestured for him to sit in a chair and sat on a couch beside him. The woman in brown brought tea. With elegant confidence Eniece began, “I did not know you had influence with the King.”

“I don’t. He and his counselors stormed into where I was drawing the wedded couple. Your name came up and that your daughter was considering a union with a family at odds with the Queen’s. He asked them what to do and was in a fair rage with their feeble answers. He asked me too because I was standing there. I did my sums from what you said, told him to act nobly and then take his wife upstairs so she and her family would remember he was the King, by the Valar!” The grin was inevitable, “I never did get paid.”

Eniece put her hands on either side of her face and exclaimed, “You are a remarkable man! It worked. My daughter is to marry the knight she loves and a poorly kept secret is that her Highness is with child.”

Nag Kath chuckled, “The King seemed a bit on edge. It was the least I could do for my new country.”

Eniece took a sip and said, “You are an enigma, Nag Kath. You say very little, and when you do say something, you say very little. You must have many secrets.”

“I see the beginning of a fair exchange, mysterious lady.”

She gave him the first real smile he had seen. “I have fewer than you might guess.”

“I have more.” He felt the need to be honest. If there was a future for them, that should start now. “Some are not for such fair ears.”

“You overestimate me, Nag Kath. If you are shy, I will start. What is and was common knowledge was that I was to marry the last King at a very young age. He took me anticipating that and then changed his mind for political reasons. You met his second daughter tonight. The first died nine years ago. You drew her son. I returned to my family on the lake.”

He sympathized, “That must have been very hard for all of you.”

“Not really. My parents are traders and traders are practical. The documents of joining were signed but not made public. It was not my parents' place to approve or disapprove when the crown-prince married another. Such is the way of lords and girls. When I returned to Esgaroth, the father was unknown to the world. My parents embraced me and did not remonstrate with his Lordship. The man settled a sum of money on me for the care of his child. To a trader’s family, it was a fortune.

“Four years later, I married a business associate of my father’s. He was ten years older than me and had no children from his late wife. Regald treated Ardatha kindly and loved me in his own fashion.” She smiled again, “I think I intimidated him. He died six years ago. My parents are still very much with us though and excited about their beloved grand-daughter’s wedding.

“Every year, I receive an invitation to the palace. King Brand was sure I would return to him in some … capacity. This year I came because of Ardatha and lo, I find the man she loves is the second son of folk in discord with her Highness’ family.” She gave a graceful but genuine laugh and added, “Then you saved us all by telling the King to bed his lovely wife and let it be known that this is his realm and he will decide how men shall serve him. That is not commonly known.

“I had never met him until the reception. It seems his father’s arrangements were quiet. For years now, I’ve lived on the lake and at my late husband’s home in Buhr Austar where Ardatha met her knight."

Nag Kath smiled and said, “Good! I am the romantic sort and love a happy ending.” 

Eniece looked at him with a smile and said, “Now it is your turn.”

“That is a long story for another time.” Pausing a moment, “Eniece, I would very much like to see you again. Would you have dinner with me, perhaps next Thursday?”

“I would like that.”

“I will call at seven.”

_____________--------_____________

Two mornings later, Nag Kath drew formal portraits for Lancer Reyald and Princess Ardatha along with them together. They were thrilled. When he was done, Reyald excused himself and the Princess said, “Mother thinks you are very interesting, Nag Kath.”

“I am.”

She teased, “You be nice to her.”

“I will.”

She was barely eighteen but Nag Kath suspected she would be more confident than the last bride he drew. He wished them well and hoped to see them soon.

On the same day, Orodor Norendras of the dinner party had lunch with his brother. Vurondor was the Scholar from Dale who attended the conference in Orthanc to reclaim their lost treasures. Nag Kath, tall blonde fellow? Had to be the same one; an orcish sorcerer from Orthanc who, by the time the story reached him, single-handedly slaughtered a pack of wargs and drank their blood. 

One of the artifacts, hardly worth mentioning, had gone missing and the delegation agreed it would be better to keep tales of carousing with foreigners to themselves. Orodor did say, “Brother Vuro, you have been keeping mixed company!”

On Thursday the gate guards would not let Nag Kath in and would not go to the guest house and inquire. He walked home in the rain.

_____________--------_____________

There was plenty else to do. His reading lessons had reached the point where the scholar loaned him short books with cheat pages to help with pronunciations. A letter was circled in a common word with a picture alongside. Brenen thought the books boring and wanted more about great deeds and fell beasts of yore. Not that he knew, but the lad worked for a fell beast who had to keep reminding him to put a rock on the trash box in the alley so the cats wouldn’t dump their fish scraps.

Brenen would also be responsible for planting the fifteen by twenty foot walled garden with flowers next spring and finding a table for entertaining. Among the first guests would be the Brightens so Brenen also had to get chairs of the right height for all races. The lad did himself proud finding a Woodworkers Guildman who made chairs with adjustable legs. It seemed entertaining guests of all sizes was fashionable.

Nag Kath saw Burry fairly often since the big Sergeant was responsible for the archers along the west surround. There were no Easterlings to shoot but they trained with cloth-headed arrows as if enemies were climbing the walls. Cauldrons with pitch were ready to heat at key points and woe betide the soldiers who let the firewood get wet. If Burry wasn’t married with three little ones, Nag Kath would have finagled an ale on a night Aleurn was making dinner. Brenen suspected a friend of the Patellences came to visit more often than he used to. He was not there for their daughter’s company.

On the first of December they got their first heavy snowfall. Citizens were expected to clear walks around their homes and businesses but compliance varied. Soldiers absolutely must keep military arteries and wall-walks clear, even if it meant shoveling by torchlight. Nag Kath’s roof had a small leak. Brenen’s friend’s da was in the Builder’s Guild and the man agreed to visit when he could climb up safely.

Nag Kath did a rough calculation and figured he had paid Brenen on the order of three silvers in assorted wages and finder’s fees. The lad still looked like he scraped barnacles off barges so Nag Kath took him by the ear to Horadth and Son for an assortment of shirts, socks, underwear and a jacket that did not have a large green stain on the front. This place also sold trousers that were un-hemmed. As long as they fit at the waist, someone else could hem them up or just cut off the excess. His mom measured two pairs to fit on one of her dinner visits and sewed them at work. If the lad was to hawk the stylings of Dale’s artist to the quality, he shouldn’t look like he was in the cut-purse league.

By Syndolan, most of the little ponds in the region and, occasionally, the lake itself, froze-over. As in Orthanc and the Pelennor, the swords of dead enemies could be had for the taking over the last sixty years. To get to the other side, or just for exercise, men and women both would regrind weapons to clamp or bolt onto boots so they could glide on the ice. Children would clear snow so they could race each other.

Nag Kath had a pair of boots made with the swords inset into the soles and whiled the hours away tracking across the surface. Sometimes women came together or unattached with mixed groups and winked at him. He smiled. Wondering how he would do in a race, he tried the ‘fast’ when he was alone. That went well until he skidded to stop and sliced through the ice into the water.

A long-neglected chore was taking his sword to the smith. The guard was loose from prying it out of Vandery’s owner and it had seen bumps in travel. Brenen told him Aüle was the man to see. From a family of weapon-smiths, he was named after the Vala Lord of craft. Names here were often more what someone did than who came before, although Sulto Logsplitter’s family had been leather-craftsmen for generations.

The smith did not fit the mold. He was tall, wiry and clean-shaven from his fine razors. He wasn’t beating horseshoes either. Much of his work was engraving and polishing dress weapons for folk who hoped to never use them. The man carefully unsheathed the sword and laid it on a clean cloth covering the bench. Without raising his head, “These are bone nicks.” Then he looked up and assessed the tall man with the disheveled blonde hair. 

Nag Kath said, “I was given it in Rohan for services rendered.”

Aulë nodded grimly. “They temper their weapons a little softer than we do here so the swords won’t break slashing from horseback. This is the finest of their work I’ve seen.” Looking directly at Nag Kath, “You were honored, sir.” With a little more inspection, “You have kept it up but I will need to pull the handle to snug the guard. Those nicks will grind out well enough. Then it just needs a polish. Against the wet and cold you might rub the blade with oil-wax more often than on the Mark.”

The Elf collected it two days later. Aulë watched him leave with canny eyes. Nicks like that would have cleaved clean through. 


	32. Strange Humors

**_Chapter 32_ **

**_Strange Humors_ **

It was time for one more important investigation and this bore risk. Nag Kath went to the Healers district. For such a large membership it was a small gathering since most midwives served the area within a few blocks of their homes or visited women up the hill. The palace had their own healers but they still bought supplies from Guild shops. Guild meetings were on the second Wednesday of the month after shops closed for the day. 

Nag Kath went to one. The tavern was too large to reserve entirely for their spotty attendance but they filled the largest room. The Elf took a table near them and eavesdropped to discover if any were like the estimable Mrs. Skilleth. Unlike the other guilds, there were no special greetings or songs. These fork, mostly ladies, were all business. He wanted to learn about conventional healing and remedies but many of them were charlatans. Inductive healers like him would take the real aspects of the other arts seriously. A discreet and rewarding consultation was the first step.

There were two candidates. One was a Dwarf woman who kept to her own folk. The other was also a woman who claimed to pull maladies from flesh but also dealt in herbs. There was no mention of demons. She was a spare creature. Nag Kath thought her pushing forty with tangled reddish hair and a wealth of freckles. She did not wear a wedding ring. Her clothes had been expensive at one point. Nice clothes gone to ruin told more than everyday rags. 

Brenen was aghast! Nag Kath told him he would infect him with a false illness and he should go to the woman for a cure. If she failed, Nag Kath would extract it himself when he came home. Brenen finally agreed. Nag Kath had been very good to him. He did not throw his mother in the street. The lad insisted the Elf stay close by and rescue him if the woman used him for foul spells. Virgin girls were more valuable for such sorceries, but boys would do in a pinch.

A block from the healing district Nag Kath took the lad’s wrist and it glowed a sickly yellow for five seconds. Brenen immediately threw-up and paled to a ghostly pallor. Maybe he had agreed too soon! Still, he managed to make it to the woman’s dingy store. Brenen felt slightly reassured that Nag Kath was just in the alley. 

Moaan Quessan came to the front of her herb shop and asked how she could help. As if on cue, Brenen vomited into the snow and looked balefully at the woman through bloodshot eyes. Nag Kath had better pay double for this stunt! She glared long and hard in the dim light, “This way.” 

This room caught what sun there was through a fair-sized window. She lit an oil sconce on the side wall and then took his pulses. For what seemed forever, she examined the nervous boy more closely than any woman other than his mother ever had. She fell silent for the longest moment and then said, “This is a strange malady, young man. The cure will not be pleasant.”

Triple, Nag Kath! Bloody triple!

The cure was also more than Nag Kath had planned to expose. The healer pulled a long draft from a mug on the table and gave it to Brenen to finish. Then she took Brenen’s arm with both hands and applied her own gift while speaking incantations from the common tongue. Much more slowly than the Elf’s application, foulness transferred from Brenen to the woman without color. She wretched into a towel waiting in her lap.

Moaan wiped her mouth and seemed groggy for a minute but then her eyes cleared and she became very grave. “That was not a sickness, young man. You have been exposed to foul sorcery.”

Double triple, Nag Kath! 

“Think hard where you may have met or touched someone new in the last few days.”

Oh, he bloody knew! She continued, “And powerful too. Whoever did this to you is a dangerous creature. Did he take indecent liberties with you?”

As with hairless lads of the pleasure houses? Oh, oh! What had he gotten himself into?! “No.”

“You should be fine in a few days. I think I got it all. That will be ten groats, and I have to report this to the authorities. This craft falls outside what my Guild allows.”

Brenen had no cash on him. The experiment worked so it was time to call in the militia. He nodded and stumbled towards the front door. The woman dogged his heels in case he ran without paying. Brenen opened the door and looked up the street. Almost immediately, a tall man seemed to walk on top of the snow and onto the porch. “I am Nag Kath. May I come in?”

There was nothing stopping him but good manners so she stood aside as the man and spent lad walked back to her healing room. The smell of her towel was about to make her sick again so she carried it to the back door and tossed it in the snow. Returning to her chair she demanded, “You had both better explain yourselves!”

Brenen was trying not to be sick again. Nag Kath did the talking, “I had to see if you are real or not. You do indeed have the gift, and you spotted my craft as well.”

“You might have done that without making me toss my breakfast!”

“I am sorry. My needs call for strong tests.” With that he gently took her hand and extracted his own malady. His hand glowed! In addition to a display of greater power, she thought it considerate and would let her work again without three or four day’s recovery. Then he handed her a pair of silver tenths, four months worth of pulling infections and boils. 

“Now, here is my story …” Nag Kath went on to explain that he had Elvish powers without mentioning the wizards or Huntsman. 

“One of those silvers is to keep this quiet. I am already known up the hill so you need not fear failing to expose me as a sorcerer. I do not intend to join the Guild or practice, except at great need. And I can do so without being detected. I want you to teach me traditional methods of healing with herbs and foods.

He said levelly, “If you agree, there will be another silver in a month.”

Moaan Quessan made a pretense of considering that but she was sold with the first two dented kings. She announced, “I will not betray any confidences! Many of these people are my friends. Many are frauds and I will share that willingly.” She looked at Brenen who, unlike them, was not used to having sickness dragged in and out of his body. “What about him?”

Nag Kath spoke for the lad, “He works for me.”

“All right. Give me a day to get my wits about me. Unless you can look sicker than you are, we should not meet here. Folk will talk.”

“Can you get away without comment?”

“For three silvers I can elude Mandos’ dogs.”

Giving her his card he said, “Bring a sample of your wares to this address tomorrow at ten.” When she looked overlong at the card, “Three buildings above Mortner’s bakery. Green door.” 

Miss Quessan had a few things to do. First was visiting a dry goods store uptown for better clothes which would also change a silver into denominations that would not attract notice on her block. Then she added to or got new substances for both the shop and a working bag for the evil Elf. For a bird’s breath, she wondered about her bargain. It would be fine. She did not know fell curses. Healing piles did not violate the charter. Hopefully the boy wasn’t still green around the gills. 

The boy was. On their way home Brenen rehearsed a dozen complaints about his ill-use but they only made him want to vomit again. Nag Kath put him to bed with an unnoticed glow to help him sleep. 

The next morning, Brenen opened the door. He was feeling better but seeing Miss Quessan made his stomach churn. Remembering his station, he welcomed her and showed her into the big downstairs room where they did everything but sleep. The home must have been a business at one time.

Miss Quessan had been shown her gift before she could marry. If Talereth was able to forestall hers until after children, she might wait. Disease and pain always flowed to unborn children. There would be more demand for Tal than Miss Quessan among men with other interests. Male healers would not have that problem but Nag Kath was the first she had heard of in her lifetime in Dale. The Easterlings had a few. 

These women were not held in higher esteem because they sometimes had other powers men feared. Not all humors came from vanquished dark Lords. There were still powers in earth and sky. Some were dark, some light. Some had no allegiance and served those who could summon them. Mrs. Skilleth probably had her fingers in a few of those. Miss Quessan had only healing touches but she could still never be trusted by men who feared sorcery more than swords. Some rulers would slay them all with no more compunction than netting rats.

Nag Kath had been upstairs and came down when Brenen showed her to the couch. Without his heavy coat he was an impressive specimen. A fell lord? She did not get that sense. His remedy for her was warm. Nag Kath sat in the chair to her left and Brenen found anything else to do outside. 

Without preamble she began, “I think I know something of your skills. They are more powerful than mine. How you got them I don’t even want to know. The limitation is that while you can pull the essence of maladies, you cannot keep wounds closed or keep infection away. Sometimes the body only needs a little help to heal itself. There is much known to those with no powers at all. If you agree, I will show you what I can.”

That was fine by him. She opened a carpet bag and arranged an assortment of mismatched bottles on the low table. Nag Kath enjoyed learning. They spent many days discussing what she knew and he was able to help her as well. Like his with archery, her breathing was ill-timed. He could not show her his resting process but she learned to not breathe so hard and flood her body. 

Though she was him twice a week for several months, they never became friends. If anyone had reason not to trust him in Dale, it was her. He paid her well and she kept quiet about the tall man. One of the last things he told her is that he wanted no commerce with the alchemists, conjurers or others who claimed to speak with spirits, unless they actually could. She had a low opinion of them too and told him who to avoid.

_____________--------_____________

A month after Brenen’s illness came Syndolan Day, a national holiday in Dale. There were no fireworks but someone discovered how to make charcoal sparklers and the children would carry them until they got too hot to hold. Nag Kath thought it was too bad he had to use all of his green match powder scattering the Revanthars. Taverns and homes around the city celebrated for several days. Great numbers of geese and turkeys came to their end along with rounds of cheese and barrels of ale.

It was time to throw a party. In his half year as a citizen, Nag Kath met many people. Some of them did not need to meet each other with him as the nexus. Still, they could have great fun. The point that decided it was the Patellances would be with friends on Syndolan Eve so Aleurn was available to make finger-food for the fifteen or so people who might come. Nag Kath felt bad that she would work rather than enjoy the party but she said ordinary folk made the food beforehand and then joined in the eating. Levus the brewmaster was told a month in advance to prepare a keg for the occasion. A demi-cask of wine was also ordered. Nag Kath did not think barley spirits were a good idea. 

Writing the invitations was the proudest moment of his life. Besides the ability to say what he wanted, they had illustrations and were things of beauty. People kept them. He hand-delivered the first ones to Lotold and Lorens Brightens and their families. They would be glad to come but might be late from a dinner engagement. Uncle Stifo and his bride were welcome too. Brenen delivered the rest including to the scholar and his wife, Mr. Jeevars the cook, assorted merchants and quite a few art patrons. Scholar Dol-Evath asked if his friend Scholar Thursen could come with them. He was recently widowed and being among people might ease his hurt on this special night. 

Miss Quessan was invited but not expected to attend. Master Toymaker Dwarf Bruigin and his wife Meladsie said they would come. And Burry and his wife would be there if her sister could mind the kids. The invitation for the one person he wanted to see most was returned unopened. There had been no word from Eniece since her dinner. Considering what had happened to her here he thought she would put her back to the place. 

Brenen did not know the Elf’s feelings for the enigmatic beauty, but he did know that Nag Kath was a one-woman man. Females, some of them very attractive, kept their gaze on him indecently long. He was always polite but did not seem to notice. Brenen noticed and was starting be noticed by girls. The more Nag Kath ignored them, the more they seemed to stare. Since Brenen got tongue-tied with the lasses, he would try that.

The big day arrived. Brenen rented plates and cups from a restaurant closed for the night plus a deposit against breakage. Foods were prepared in advance. One of Aleurn’s friends helped for a tenner. The home smelled wonderful. A trio of musicians arrived early and tuned their instruments in traditional Syndolan chords.

The party was judged a huge success. It was an eclectic mix of people from all over the city. After the second time of everyone singing through the Syndolan songs, the musicians started playing things people would dance to. Hobbits can dance! Even Uncle Stifo shook a leg. Some thirty-six people came at one count. They hadn’t all been invited but came with someone who was. In Dale, that was close enough. The food was gone in an hour but there was enough ale for the night. And speaking of food, Aleurn’s admirer came by for a dance and then they both disappeared. Good for her!

There are advantages to being a host who does not sleep or get drunk. As people started wandering home, Scholar Thursen asked about the Elvish text. Nag Kath said, “Yes, I still have quite a few of them. Come upstairs.” They walked up to the room he used for storage after handing the scholar an oil lamp. “Hmmm, I think most of them are here” rummaging through a leather sack that A’mash carried.

“Here you go.” Nag Kath handed him a sheaf of different sized papers. “I think the brown ones are from Gondolin but there are some Avari and a few from old Lorien too. Gandalf said these were either duplicates or routine records. Help yourself.”

Thursen and Dol-Evath split fifty groats selling the first to a merchant who had it framed for his wall. And some uncounted number of these were from the lost city of Gondolin?!

The scholar was an honest soul but was still sorely tempted to affect indifference to depress the price. No, that would reflect poorly on his friend. He said, “Mr. Kath, some of these may have considerable value to folk who prize ancient Elvish lore. Have you ever considered that among your people’s writings?”

“No, but I cannot speak or write any of the Elvish tongues. I can barely read Westron. Fergus has been teaching me for the last, oh, almost four months now.”

Scholar Thursen did not see that coming. As all the mannish world accepted; there were no illiterate Elves. They were all thousands of years old and knew more than everyone else. He ventured, “Mr. Kath, you are not an Elf?”

“Only part Elf, and very young by their reckoning.”

Well, again, Mr. Kath …”

“Just Nag Kath.”

“Mr. Kath, I don’t mean to demean your own superb talents but some of these might bring several times the price of your drawings.”

Nag Kath thought for an instant and said, “Then let us consider this; you and Fergus split the proceeds. He will continue to teach me this language and you will teach me what you know of Elvish. I may need to know that someday. Is that fair?”

“No. You put yourself at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, I have a few other cards up my sleeve. Discuss it among yourselves and let me know what you think. In the meantime, take these with you and I’ll rummage about for more. I think there are some Numenorean pages under that pile over there. I kept the ones with illustrated borders.” Scholars Thursen and the Dol-Evaths walked home with bright futures.

Sergeant Burry was among the last to leave. His wife was a tiny woman who could dance as well as the Hobbits. The big soldier fared Nag Kath goodnight with a broad grin and slapped him on the arm. His grin became a knowing smile when he saw a man over the Elf’s shoulder. They shook hands and Burry walked his lady home.

Nag Kath turned to see what had sobered the Sarn’t. A well-dressed Northman still wearing his greatcoat was sitting on one of the chairs around the low table. He had no drink and did not look the worse for festivities. Nag Kath approached him in welcome, “Good evening, sir. I am sorry you have been neglected. The ale is gone but there is still some wine.”

“Wine would taste good right now. Thank you.”

Nag Kath fetched him some in a reasonably clean cup and introduced himself. The man raised his drink in respect and said, “I am Davit Rosscranith. You are quite a host, Mr. Kath.”

It was too late to correct people so he took the compliment and asked Mr. Rosscranith if he enjoyed the party.

“I fear I just arrived and did not know of the event.”

Nag Kath sat down now that there was finally room on the couch and wondered, “How can I be of service?”

“You did a favor for someone. He would like to thank you. I have come to ask if you would attend him at the palace tomorrow evening to celebrate the incoming year.”

“I could not be more honored, Mr. Rosscranith. When should I arrive?”

“Seven.”

After the big man left, Nag Kath walked over to a Dwarf friend of Master Bruigin and shook him by the shoulder. The fellow woke with a start and peered around the room. “Did I miss it?”

“No sir! You were the life of the gathering. I just thought you might have other things to do.”

“Right you are! You throw a superb party, Mr. Kath!”

“A party is only as good as its guests. You walk home safely.”

Brenen was curled in a corner sound asleep. Nag Kath put a blanket over him and walked upstairs.


	33. Higher Circles

**_Chapter 33_ **

**_Higher Circles_ **

The next morning, Brenen got the job of clean-up. Most of that was putting trash out for the garbage cart whose owner had the Guild subscription for this block. Brenen also had to wash and return the rented dinnerware. They broke seven plates and twelve cups which totaled more than the deposit so there would be coppers due. No one was sick. No one failed to go outside for needs, though the garden needed care. Nothing was stolen. Nag Kath really knew how to throw a party.

Brenen was still awake when his mother and the Patellence’s friend were suddenly not there. Somehow he imagined the wedding she never had. Then he reasoned she was a big girl and at her stage of courtship, men would sample the wares. On the plus side, he seemed a nice enough fellow and probably had a few groats put by. Aleurn had not married Brenen’s father so there would be no obstacles to a lawful union if the right man asked. Divorces were difficult in Dale.

At what he thought was six-thirty, Nag Kath walked up the hill in his best clothes, the same ones he last wore at Eniece’s dinner. The guards needed no pass and admitted him instantly. One of them guided him as far as “Girion’s Path” and said goodnight. Reaching the palace, a man at the door opened it and another on the inside escorted him past the reception hall to a smaller room just before the private apartments. He was a few minutes early. There might be twenty people there already and not many more would have the reason or the clout to arrive late.

Rosscranith walked over to him and shook hands with a bear grip. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Kath. Let us see if we can’t find you something to drink.” The big man walked him through a gauntlet of stares to a table with both finger-foods and all manner of beverages. 

It was Nag Kath’s habit not to eat at events. He did not need food the way men did and he wanted his hands clean for greetings and drawing. He did accept a beer after seeing that was the prevalent beverage held in the room. Wine was fairly new to Northmen. They punished it by the bucket privately, but ale was the drink of Dale in summer, beer in winter.

Rosscranith had been assigned to make the Elf feel at home and started introducing him to folk in the room. One couple was the Doran-Guths. He met the Fimberds. Then came a stunning woman standing by herself without a drink. As they approached, Nag Kath saw she was an Elf. Rosscranith said, “My Lady Ambassador, may I introduce Nag Kath. Mr. Kath, this is Lady Nurelle, Ambassador of the Woodland Realm. Nag Kath bowed in the manner of her kingdom and wished her a joyous holiday.

For her part, the Lady looked at him for several moments until offering her public smile and saying, “Good evening, Colonel, Mr. Kath.” Rosscrannith was a born conversationalist but she had stabbed his introduction through the heart. He was about to salvage what he could when Lady Nurelle said, “You must be the artist who advised the King.”

“I had that privilege, my Lady.”

Producing a more genuine smile she wondered, “It is odd that we have not met until now.”

“I am sure you are very busy.” He did not say they were both busy because what he did could not possibly matter. Like most Elvish women, she was fair beyond the words of men. 

But he had learned a thing or two in Thranduil’s Halls. One was that Elves did not feel physical attraction the way men did. They recognized it and cherished it, but only in the most courtly way. When he had alluded to meeting the ravishing Lady Tullaer with Donathiur, he was told in no uncertain terms that relationships as he knew them in Middle-Earth were not possible among the their people. The act of procreation happened rarely but was an unparalleled expression of love and light.

He tried to follow their steady demeanor but being among such beautiful creatures for five weeks was quite a distraction. If rapture was that rare, it had better be good. Some of their lads should hike over the mountain for the fish-fry at Whilmina’s and compare notes in the morning. The other thing he knew was that her face and comments would betray nothing. His only hope was to be as bland as oatmeal until she grew bored. Nag Kath was spared inventing nothing to say when a herald entered the room and cried, “Hear ye, the King and Queen!”

Everyone turned in the direction of the herald and bowed a few moments later when Bard II and Lady Delatha entered. They held hands in the raised fashion King Elessar and Queen Arwen used after the Catanard. Their pending child was visible. Women here were allowed to show longer than in the south before their confinement. Sometimes women at her stage of pregnancy looked worn and tired but it suited her gentle face. She smiled and recognized friends in the room she would speak with later. 

From what little Nag Kath knew of royalty, they would probably get to him in the last third of the draw. There were people who had to be acknowledged in order. There were ones who would insist on saying something profound and then there was everyone else. With his minder at his elbow, all Nag Kath had to do was enjoy his ale and not get his fingers greasy. When the royal couple turned to greet friends, the Elvish ambassador was twenty feet away.

So; Rosscranith was a Colonel. Around here that was a big noise. He would both be a field commander of at least two hundred and titled. That the ambassador called him Colonel rather than his court position or a diminutive allowed between persons of equal rank meant he was a soldier first. The Elf gathered as much from Burry’s look of respect. It was probable the man knew Nag Kath could peg a gnat at fifty paces and was not to be challenged with steel. Nag Kath played on that assumption, “Soldier to soldier, do you know why I am here?”

The colonel replied softly, “I am not sure. But it is not for wine and pheasant livers. Keep your wits about you and bide your time.”

Nag Kath nodded. Rosscranith introduced Nag Kath to another couple who barely stopped walking and then to a tall, lean man with a wise face, Woralth, the city architect. Out of the corner of his eye, Nag Kath saw Rosscranith begin to bow and knew the King was close. He turned to the royal couple and bowed as he had learned in Minas Tirith. In a much calmer voice than the Elf heard the first time, his Lordship said, “Hello Nag Kath. Thank you for coming. I am glad to meet you in this merry setting.” 

“I am deeply honored, Sire, My Lady.”

The Queen spoke, “I am told you are new to Dale, Nag Kath. I hope you have found our fair city hospitable.”

“Indeed. I have been graciously welcomed by your subjects.”

She asked, “Was it you who drew those lovely pictures of our nephew?”

“It was, my Lady. One of each and one for them.” Somewhere he heard the Queen was considered pious, dutiful and a good mother but not especially bright. Nag Kath did not get that last impression at all. It might simply be that in a world where everyone made themselves fools trying to be clever, she listened. He had learned to listen first himself and it saved him time and again.

Looking to the King he added, “I needed no artifice for that. It seems a match made to last.” There was no question that the King was as deeply in love with his lady as she was with him. Roving eyes and fidelity seem to leapfrog generations and this union was faithful. 

Queen Delatha looked to her man and said, “My dear! I think it would be splendid for Nag Kath to capture us.”

What could her husband say? “Of course, my love, if Nag Kath is available.”

Nag Kath supposed so, “I am at your royal command.” He also supposed that if the King had meant to say something on the side, his lady wife had given him the opportunity to do so privately. No, her Ladyship was no one’s fool. The King bowed to all three men who bowed even deeper. Nag Kath assumed Rosscranith would make the arrangements.

The royals moved on to other guests and everyone left within ten minutes of them retiring. Ambassador Nurelle lost her chance to drag Nag Kath home. Turning to the Colonel he said, “I should be going. I am sure we will meet again.” 

_______________------______________

Nag Kath felt a little sorry for Colonel Rosscranith. Warriors without wars are adrift. This fellow had court skills but running errands, even for a King, paled against leadership. He was too young to be the ‘Old Colonel’. When he returned a few days later he explained, “The Queen is excited about her portrait with his Lordship. Please come tomorrow at eleven.”

“Gladly.”

Rosscranith seemed as though he wanted so say something else, something less official. Brenen brought tea which gave the man time to state his case. “Her Ladyship has understandably not been herself in the last few days. It may take a while to capture the image she wants.”

“It would not be the first time, Colonel. Do you know if Their Highnesses intend to include their children?”

“I was not told, but they may. They are very fond of their daughters and see to some of their training personally. Mister … Nag Kath, do not be surprised if his Lordship wants a few words as well.”

That would make most men fret about the perfect impression. Nag Kath had met the Lord of everyplace he had been and wasn’t put off his feed. More than that, he was Uruk-hai. “I endeavor to serve, Colonel.”

As before, the guards opened the gate on sight and Nag Kath’s strode to the palace door. He was led down a rather dark corridor to the place in Dale that got the most sun. The hall opened to a chamber with large windows on both sides of the corner and a fireplace on either end. Queen Delatha was seated on a long couch. He walked to what he thought would be the correct distance and bowed deeply.

Rosscranith was right. She looked pale and wan but still had the same natural smile. “How kind of you to come, Nag Kath. I fear I am not as festive as on Syndolan Day. That is my favorite holiday.”

“Mine too, your Ladyship.”

“The King will join us shortly, although please do not be disappointed if he is late.”

“Pray, my Lady, do not have a care for that. Your noble husband reminds me of King Elessar who also had many pressing matters at one time.”

Her Ladyship looked like she was summoning reserve strength but then continued gracefully, “I have never been to Gondor, though I hear it is splendid indeed.”

“So it is. I have …” He watched her lose her focus and recover. “My Lady, if this is not a good time for you I …”

“This is my third child. I have felt this way before.”

He doubted that. His meetings with Miss Quessan included a great deal on the ailments of women with child. The sorcerer in him felt this was something else. It wasn’t the color magic, but it was close. She began to tremble in the warm room. Nag Kath looked to the attendant who could not see her face from the door. The queen said quietly, “No, please. I have lost enough blood.”

King Bard entered expecting to join a light conversation about pictures. One look at her complexion told him different. This was happening more often. As his wife struggled to maintain her balance, Nag Kath said to the King, “I have other skills too. They are called for now.” More loudly, “Perhaps the attendant can fetch tea?”

Bard nodded to the doorman who hurried out. Without waiting for permission, the Elf knelt by the Queen and quickly untied the blouse lacing on her left sleeve. King Bard watched closely but did not intervene. Nag Kath took her wrist with his right hand and felt the artery in her neck with his left. Moving the hand to hold her cheek his Lordship saw both of the artist’s hands glow silver as if a sword hit by moonlight. The effect lasted about ten seconds then died away. Nag Kath put her Ladyship’s hand back in her lap and stood-up, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had eaten a frozen treat too quickly. The Queen faded into a comfortable sleep regaining some of her natural color. King Bard looked at Nag Kath with the smallest of head turns ready to hear what just happened.

The ad-hoc physician blinked a couple times and said with effort, “She has a blood disorder, Sire. It has been building for some time.”

The King looked to his Lady who seemed more at rest than he had seen for months. She had disciplined herself to be vibrant when awake but sleep betrayed deep fatigue. Bard sat and gestured for Nag Kath to do the same. “A blood disorder, you say. Do you know the kind?”

“Nay, Sire. I removed quite a bit but it is still there. I will make inquiries when I get home.” Nag Kath felt a little queasy but soldiered on. 

“And how know you of this, artist who glows? No, that will wait. My wife is much in consultations with physicians of her home land.” With a tone that invited comment the King added, “Perhaps their methods are unique.” The man looked to see Nag Kath’s reaction and then to his Queen who was breathing normally. Nag Kath was still trying to get his bearings so the King leaned back on the couch next to her, “I would know her malady. All of it.”

For someone as pale as Nag Kath it was hard to tell if he had lost any color, but he felt strong enough to walk directly to Miss Quessen’s shop. She opened the door and let him without a word. He had not been here since poor Brenen was the bait. In her treatment room he said, “Two more silvers if you will risk being sick.”

She had gotten less for worse and nodded. Moaan took his wrist and released the humor. She felt faint but was not nauseous. Then she sat down and demanded, “What HAVE you been up to?”

“That is not of my making. I am the messenger. It did not feel a natural ailment.”

“It is to the eye. But it is being carried in something else … something more along your lines, sorcerer.”

“I feared as much. This is beyond my medicine. And I must trust you as much as anyone ever has. Are you willing?”

She considered that, “I cannot take much of whatever this is.”

“This is a consulting role. And it must be kept very, very quiet.”

She nodded very, very slowly. 

“The humor I just transferred is from the Queen. I was not there as a healer but she faltered and when I restored her, this is what I drew. The King said she is much in the care of her homeland physicians.”

Quessan said matter-of-factly, “I understand she is carrying.”

“About half-term, I should think.”

“I need to see her. You are not a pure conduit.” The healer bit her lip and said, “My risk is not this ailment. It is people who want it to succeed and those who suspect my motives. You understand that?”

“Aye. I only said I needed to make inquiries. Not of whom.”

“If whoever delivered this spell knows he is doing so, we are both in danger.”

Nag Kath considered that. “I am not the greatest reader of regal minds, but I think the King already suspects. He told me he wanted to know her ailment, all of it, he said.” 

“Then it is time for you to tell me what you are.”

__________________--------_________________

The next day, Nag Kath had Brenen deliver a note to Colonel Rosscranith saying he was ready to return for their Highness' portraits and he would be bringing his assistant. Brenen was to wait for his reply. Within the hour he was back with a note that the following morning at eleven was propitious. They needed scholar Dol-Evath to explain the last word.

The artist arrived the next morning with his overworked assistant. She had to carry both the familiar leather tube and a carpetbag. Doors were opened. They waited like everyone else and were then shown to the same pretty room where her Highness met Nag Kath two days before. The King was beside her along with several ministers just completing their brief. Nag Kath and Miss Quessan both bowed deeply and then the Elf made a show of fussing about the light and where the couple would sit and other artistic fine points. Pretense established; the King nodded to retainers that they could leave.

The Queen looked rather spry. His care must have helped. Both healers bowed deeply again as if this was their true introduction and sat in the nearby chairs. “My Lord and Lady, this is Miss Quessan. She is much more experienced than me in matters of women’s health.”

Her Ladyship said, “Welcome, Miss Quessan.”

Her husband spoke gravely, “Both of you, I need to know what you have divined before further care. We are uncomfortable with such medicine.”

Nag Kath nodded to the healer who considered her words carefully, “My Lord and Lady, Nag Kath is a powerful creature but he is new to the humors of man. He brought me what he induced from my Lady. In my experience it is a chronic blood complaint among people who do not eat enough meat or greens. That is especially the case with women who nurture a growing child.”

Looking to all three, “If that was all; her Ladyship could simply eat them and regain her strength.” Miss Quessan paused again for clarity. “My concern is that this lack has been foully cast. I detected from Nag Kath something unnatural holding it in place. He felt it as well. The child will take as she loses to the ruin of both. At the risk of your wrath, esteemed Lord, I think someone is killing her.”

The royal couple looked at each other. She nodded. He turned to them and said, “First things first. How is this foul witchcraft removed?”

Miss Quessan was unafraid, “I must do as you allowed Nag Kath to do and find the path. I will know nothing until then.”

The Queen was unafraid as well, “This is more than me. An heir to the throne is at risk.”

Miss Quessan said gently, “I understand, my Lady.”

The Queen looked at her husband and then to the healer. “What must I do?”

“If you would allow me to hold your arm.”

Queen Delatha loosened her sleeve tie and pushed it back to her elbow.

Miss Quessan softly said, “Please relax. Close your eyes. Think of pleasant things.” Her Highness tried as the healer took her arm in both hands. She did not produce the colored aura of the Elf. For two nerve-wracking minutes the healer concentrated and began to sweat. Then she let go and rocked back in her chair. The blood drained from her face.

“Nag Kath, my bottle.” The real assistant in this masquerade reached in a carpetbag filled with an assortment of cures. The first thing out was a stout flask with a cork stopper. The woman drank deeply with her eyes closed and sighed, “Lostorin.”

Opening her eyes she saw the royal couple as patients, not Lords, and said, “Whoever is giving her the spice tulus is the assassin. That is the binder. Spells have been cast over that.” 

Very calmly, just as she had spoken to hundreds of pregnant women over the years, she continued, “If we consider this is cured, you must increase your intake of liver, eggs, leafy greens and cheese.” She asked Nag Kath to find a small blue bottle. Produced, she handed it to the King and told him, “four drops of that in tea both morning and before dinner, or at those times even if she cannot eat. There is nothing in this world that tastes worse, but it is important. Two weeks.

“And now, my Lady, I should see to the child. Miss Quessan sat next to the Queen and placed her right hand on her abdomen. Neither man was embarrassed by this womanly care. The Queen was willing. For three minutes the healer ran her hand over the womb, sometimes pressing uncomfortably. Finally she said, “I believe the child quickens well. But this has been a near thing.”

Queen Delatha had taken all of this bravely, “What else must I do to care for the royal child?”

“I should see you in a week to tell that the poison is dissipated. If so, every other week after that.” Turning to the King, “And you, my Lord, need a new cook’s helper. Tulus is an ordinary spice. It can only be bound to make Lostorin through sorcery. Your enemy may use it directly. It may be he, or she, has traded a perfectly ordinary supply with one that has been cursed and loyal servants use it innocently. 

The King offered, “Perhaps the clumsy new helper will break the bottle and we’ll see who replaces it.”

Miss Quessan smiled at his perception, “Aye, my Lord. I should like to have the current supply tested and also what comes in its place. I cannot tell with my craft but I know one who can by other means. Properly motivated, they may even remember inquiries. The use of Lostorin is not so common.”

King Bard asked, “I think I know the answer, but should we not simply say the spice is not to our taste?”

“The answer you know is correct. There are other ways to do the same thing. This person is close and skilled and patient. They may lose patience if confounded. It is not my place to instruct your Highness, but the killer should remain confident. My Lady, may I humbly suggest that you put a brave face on your obvious discomfort while your Lord’s man searches for the villain? As shamed as I am to say it, look for a woman first. Other than Nag Kath, I know of no other male sorcerers.”

That got the male sorcerer a pair of hard stares. Unfazed by her lack of discretion, Miss Quessan looked at Nag Kath, “You are more wizard, I should think.” To their Highnesses, “I help women bear healthy babies.”

Silence weighed heavily until the Queen looked at her hands and said as if none of this happened, “My dear, I will add a manicurist to care for my fingernails. They seem rather common of late. Weekly visits should keep them more presentable, don’t you think?”

Immediately after their audience, King Bard II spoke to a senior man who produced a royal attendant’s garb in Miss Quessan’s thin size. The healer also got a full Florin in assorted cash for nail-care supplies and whatever else she needed. She and Nag Kath walked back to his home. They were almost there when she said, “I was wrong about you.”

“Everyone is.”

____________---------_____________

By the next week, Miss Quessan had completed an intensive study of fingernail painting from a friend’s friend in the old quarter. A week after that, her Ladyship’s hands were lovely. During that time, large, persuasive men asked a long-time purveyor to the King’s larder discreet questions. He cooperated fully and was sent home with the understanding that they never met. 

Later that spring, Thain Durnaldar of Buhr Nauthauja, the southernmost Thainhold, who had been grooming his daughter as the successor Queen, was tragically slain with his entire hunting party.

All signs pointed to rogue Easterlings who were never caught.


	34. Fortune Smiles

**_Chapter 34_ **

**_Fortune Smiles_ **

Weeks came and went. There was no word from the palace, no visits by the Colonel. If Miss Quessan had anything to say, she would have said it. Her shop was closed. Nag Kath suspected the Queen’s new manicurist was ensconced in-house. Nag Kath had enough memories saved of the royal couple to draw a sketch of them with loving faces. It took a number of tries for individual and a paired pose before he was willing to sign them. Brenen took them to the gate addressed to Col. Rosscranith.

The only sense he got of the situation, besides not being watched, was bumping into Sarn’t Burry. Sergeants are a curious breed. A senior man like Burry cannot rise any higher so they cannot be threatened with lack of advancement. Other than being assigned to scut jobs, they really can’t lose rank and stay in the army. Lieutenants have both those problems but Sergeants can say what they think.

“Say Nag Kath!” Burry was walking home after his shift.

“Burry! You are looking hale. Haven’t seen you since your missus taught the Hobbits a thing or two about dancing.”

“Aye, that’s what she used to do before I saddled her with all those kids.” More quietly, “Hear’ed you’ve been busy.” Nag Kath nodded. “No trouble, mind. But folk know not to tease you for lack of a beard.”

“That’s something. I told you; my past has a way of finding me.”

March arrived with a fierce storm that lasted a full week. Cold followed so the snow melted slowly but when that was done, spring had arrived. Brave little crocus flowers were the first to defy winter and signal the season of renewal. When the streets were passable, an invitation arrived for the wedding of the Princess and Lieutenant Conath on the 28th of May in Buhr Austar. Nag Kath decided to go with his new squire.

Brenen was growing. He was now the height of his mother and on the tall side for thirteen-year olds. If he was going to be a squire in the wild, he needed to ride and defend himself. 

Riding first. A’mash thought it undignified for a gentleman mule to wear a saddle and carry a boy around. Brenen climbed on and clung to the halter lead for dear life as they took a three mile trot towards Erebor and back. To his credit, A’mash did not buck or bite Brenen. The relationship improved when Bren took both the mule and horse spring carrots three or four times a week. 

Nag Kath had a quieter motive. He liked Brenen and wanted to give him advantages a lad from the docks would not get. In this mercantile society, a man could rise very high in his profession. There were probably those who could buy and sell the King. But the measure of a man who mattered was military command. It increased the danger of death or injury in battle. For Nag Kath’s money, it was better to die fighting than fleeing because enemies did not spare civilians.

Brenen should have more than enough put by to buy a commission when he turned eighteen. He would need sponsors too. Given that Nag Kath was not quite four, being here in five years wasn’t something he wanted Brenen to rely on. This was the time to start making acquaintances. Before then, he needed to learn the tip from the grip.

Nag Kath took Brenen to Aulë the smith and found a used, light sword. The lad was embarrassed to have a junior-sized weapon but it could be easily traded for a more common weight when he could swing it. They also got a couple “beater” wooden swords for practice.

Nag Kath’s early sword training was limited to chopping down on an enemy until someone stabbed him. He relied on reflexes now. Brenen needed someone to show him the traditional course of instruction. Nag Kath knew just the man and Burry was soon back on retainer clacking the beaters with both the Elf and lad, off duty, of course. There was a junior tournament in the summer using padded swords with prizes and recognition. Nag Kath knew Brenen would not be anywhere close to boys who had been training since they were in swaddling rags but he had to start somewhere.

On April fifteenth the Queen gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Bells rang for three days in the city. King Bard declared a month of celebration that would lead into his Lady Sister’s wedding in Esgaroth. Songs were composed. National taxes were suspended, though daily prices did not always reflect the lower cost of doing business. One still needed to know the price of lentils. Nag Kath received an invitation to the palace to celebrate the new heir in mid-May which would give him time to reach the repeat wedding in eastern Dale with a little room to spare. 

Brenen had some news of his own. His mother was going to marry her ardent admirer in a week. He was right. Mr. Corianul Revan did have a few coppers in the bank, more than a few. Aleurn was training her replacement at the Patellances and would move into her new home after pledges of troth at the city office. Brenen was welcome there but he had a job. It wasn’t all that demanding so they saw a lot of him in any case. His dad had not surfaced and no one looked.

Nag Kath took his invitation to the gate and was passed along with everyone else in line. He saw Sarn't Burry. The Captain of the Guard took the risk that Easterlings would not attack today and moved half his men off the surround to catch well-wishers trying to climb over the palace walls. Both men waved and Nag Kath hiked the slight incline with fellow celebrants.

For the first time in his life, Nag Kath knew people. Most of them were patrons but he was on nodding terms with a number of folk and never forgot a name. He was talking to a Mr. and Mrs. Gerander of the mercantile association when the Queen saw him towering over the crowd and walked over, leaving the King speaking with a cavalry man.

Both Nag Kath and the Geranders bowed low. No one thought she would be here after giving birth so recently but her Highness was a strong woman and Nag Kath happened to know she had good medical care. She nodded graciously to the couple who were meeting a royal person for the first time and a bit tongue-tied. “Thank you so much for our picture, Nag Kath. It took longer than we thought.”

He accepted the thanks graciously, “Indeed, my Lady. Though it was in a very good cause.”

“I could not agree more. And thank you for your other gift as well.”

“I must say, your nails have never looked lovelier.”

That produced a giggle, which the Geranders were not sure royalty ever did, but they grinned for their lives, glad to be noticed by everyone noticing. To compound their pride, the King joined them with more bowing and thanking. “Hello, Nag Kath.”

“An auspicious day, Sire. May I introduce the Geranders?”

“Thank you for coming to my son’s anointment. We are the better for your company.” Mrs. Gerander was about to swoon but the vise grip of her husband kept her on her feet. Turning to Nag Kath the King said, “We must be going but it was long past time to see you again.” A brief nod followed by deep bows from the commoners and the royals made their way to some southern Thains, less the unfortunate Durnaldar. Mrs. Gerander looked at the Elf as if he was a good luck charm of the highest order before her husband smiled and led her away to refill his mug.

Well, he knew about parties and tried the wine. As usual, women stared at him longer than the men. He smiled back but his heart was not available. Nag Kath was still years from realizing this but he was indeed a hybrid. He had the body of an Elf but the thoughts of a man. In his perhaps uncharitable view of male Elves, he did not realize that they were aroused by women who were ready for them. That took a long, long time. Until then they appreciated women for all the other things that made them special.

He was used to women who were amorous most of the time he but still waited for their initiative, however long that took. After setting his heart at the mysterious Eniece; equally if not more beautiful women could try their best to no avail. Brenen, who was learning much about females, scratched his head when the Elf did not even stare at the inviting walk of some very interested ladies. But then, he was an artist.

_____________--------_____________

Ardatha and Reyald were wed in Esgaroth a few days later at a small, private ceremony. The gathering in the east was to be the larger affair where his family held sway. It was time for the Elf and his helper to prepare for trip. Brenen delivered notes to patrons and public places that they would be closed from mid-May through June but would return ready for new commissions. The lad made progress in his sword training. Nag Kath had his bow and got a standard infantryman’s bow from Burry to teach Brenen how to shoot spor bushes along the way.

Nag Kath assembled his own gear, extra for his 'squire' and food for the trail. There was a mock Elvish waybread as good as the Durgan cousins made but the real thing could not be had for love or money. A’mash protested at having to carry a slight lad, the tent and provisions. After having been scolded in waragish half a dozen times since Orthanc, all Nag Kath had to do was glower at him to get the message across. Considering how his fellow mules were often whipped, somehow the beast knew he could endure.

There were two ways to go. They could start south to Celduin Village and turn left on the Dwarf Road across the Marches. It was a high road above bogs in central Dale. That was how the bulk of merchant travel made its way across the nation

The path he chose was north past Erebor and then right on the Iron Road along the higher east/west route. Erebor was only open to Dwarves, and not all of them. On May 16th, they set out by crossing the Running River north. Before reaching the Dwarf city they turned west to skirt the slopes of the Lonely Mountain. Nag Kath looked back at Dale and thought this was a painting he could sell.

For three days they made their way across the rolling hills that formed the gap between the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills. Brenen did fairly well. He was not used to riding and had the sores to prove it, but he did not complain and did his chores. His blood ran a bit cold when Nag Kath explained this was where thousands of orcs traveled to join the Battle of the Five Armies. He was old enough to remember the Easterlings in their thousands in the plain before the gates of the Dwarf city. At least they were humans. But orcs and wargs! 

It was not certain those hills around Mount Gundabad were free of them. Orcs under the direct power of Sauron were destroyed with him but up here, yrchs (Sindarin for the large, local orcs) were more allies than slaves. There were no confirmed sightings. Livestock went missing more than they should. This was warg country too, and trolls in their day. Brenen kept up a brave front but he looked to his left a lot more than his right.

The first mannish settlement they reached was a market town at the base of the Iron Hills called Buhr Wenjan. The Thain of Riding was a jolly old cove who welcomed them for dinner, including Brenen as a companion rather than servant. Old Riding was past his days of travel to weddings but his eldest son was hunting in the marches and would make for Buhr Austar in a week. Nag Kath had allowed much more time than he needed, on purpose.

The old boy fared them well to an inn that had the most comfortable feather bed he ever slept o;[pn. If he could have strapped it on A’mash without the mule braying the rest of the way, he would have bought it in a Minas Tirith blink. The changeling would make inquiries on his way home.

The trip to the Iron Hills Dwarf city was another three days plus one for exploring and shooting the poor spor bushes. One of their campsites was along a brook that was rushing hard with spring melt but had enough eddies that fish could rest on their tiring journey. Brenen knew all about fishing and pulled in a pair of large trout more skillfully than his employer. They practiced sword play with sticks and archery as the fish sizzled in the infamous Trum Dreng frying pan.

________________------______________

The next day was one of the most important in Nag Kath’s young life. The Iron Road veered into the foothills to avoid a springtime bog. It was there. He smelled it, the same smell as the great Bilbo’s troll cave. If the wind and temperature had not been just right, none of almost everything else that happened would have.

Nag Kath had Brenen watch the mounts as he loped up the hills to a crag in the rocks. Not one to trust his luck, he brought the sword. The smell was gone now but it had been here. For three hours he scoured the crumbling rock face until he smelled the gap behind a boulder. That was it. It could not be seen unless you were standing right there. And like any troll cave, it was a large hole. Even his eyes were not strong enough to see far inside so he laid his sword to reflect the sun into the cave and gingerly stepped inside.

These were paupers as mountain trolls go. There was a box covered with dust that held several hundred Florin of Numenorean minting. There were pieces of an Elvish suit of armor. Nag Kath did not know the vintage. There was a gold cup holding perhaps an inch of rough gemstones and in a corner were several swords. The rest was their furniture, bones and substances to avoid. By the look of it, these fellows died or left thousands of years ago. As the sword glare failed, Nag Kath took some of the gems, a handful of gold and had another look at the swords. He would be back with a plan

Brenen had already prepared to spend the night here and caught a couple more fish for dinner. He looked at the dusty Nag Kath but did not ask. Both Vandery and A’mash were uneasy with his scent so he took a Kath bath and washed his clothes. The mule was bribed with extra oats. The horse would be glad to leave tomorrow.

At noon two days later they reached the Dwarf city of Iron Hills. Like Erebor, the caverns were for their own kind but Durin's Folk had fashioned a mannish town outside the gates for trade and travelers that qualified as a genuine marketplace. They had a good dinner followed by redder beer than in Dale and a bug-free sleep. Dwarves were supposed to be hard to like but he enjoyed their company. 

This stop marked the two-thirds point of the outward journey. Now they would follow the river to the Northwatch that defined the upper boundary of Lieutenant Conath’s father’s fief. At noon on the second day out of Iron Hills town they reached the intersection of the Dwarf Road cutting across southern Dale. Here they met a number of merchant trains. The southern route was much more popular for convenience and the tradition of avoiding orcs further north. 

Nag Kath was a bit surprised there wasn’t a town here since there were at least fifteen wagons plus walking travelers camped around three small streams. Half were Dwarves. Some of the men were the braided black-haired folk from further east. Evidently an Easterling only got the name when fighting. Like everywhere, those who weren’t soldiers tried to avoid fighting from any side. Many of the dark allies treated their folk as badly as anyone else. There was an inn but it was full and out of ale until another wagon from Iron Hills arrived. With half a day’s sun left, they kept moving.

At sundown the next day they reached Northwatch. It was a market town too but really more of a fortress and cavalry depot. They stayed at an inn that was not as clean or as comfy as Buhr Wenjan but with a good fish-bake.

The stout, bald cook was not as easy on the eye as Whilmina.

Buhr Austar was the next stop. This was the capital of the district with about 3,000 souls in the township and twice that many using this as their market. Though not much bigger, the place seemed older than some of the towns along the route. The inn was three stories with glass windows in the main room and oiled paper in the guest quarters. Nag Kath had requested a reserved room with the first courier this way when he decided to come. That could mean he was twentieth in line but they did hold a small garret on top with no window. The bed was clean. Brenen had the floor and his bedroll.

They were four days early. Nag Kath’s thoughts turned to Eniece. She might be here because she lived here much of the year. She might be on her way. She might stay with the groom’s family in the country. And then she might be in Lake Town having been at that ceremony and knowing she could see the couple anytime she wanted. He hoped she would come but did not inquire. That had never been necessary. If she was here and wanted to see him, he would not be hard to find.

It was time for a look at his booty. Nag Kath thanked Brenen for his hard work and gave him a silver with the rest of the day off. The boy didn’t drink and was too nervous to be seduced so he could explore after bedding the animals. There was reportedly a bookstore here and the lad liked books. Brenen excused, Nag Kath took his pocket of gems and coins downstairs to one of the window tables in the tavern. It was two in the afternoon with few patrons and they could not see what was in his hand. There were eight stones. Two were white and about the same size so those would be the wedding present. The largest was deep red. It would highlight her hair.

The coins were interesting. He grabbed several full Florins and a dozen nippers of the day. The kings all looked alike to him. Wear varied and there were a few bites in their faces so these had been in circulation before the trolls stole them. The coins were the same size as men used today but they were old enough that a merchant would rightfully weigh them to determine value.

Money was all some people thought about but Nag Kath was more interested in the swords. Those were history. One was a curved Elvish blade like Thranduil wore. They used long swords built more for slashing than stabbing. Most horse warriors used curved blades that would not bite and be wrenched from the man’s hand. 

Rohirric blades were short, straight and doubled edged so there other ways to do the job. After seeing their soldiers, Nag Kath learned their formations were based more on the spear. Officers used swords but the rank-and-file troopers bore down with long spears for the first kill of the wave and would only pull their swords or fine axes after the spear was broken or stayed in their target. The wood near the head was thinned to break on impact so the enemy could not throw it back at them.

He certainly had a lot to think about before the wedding. For the troll hoard he needed another horse and tack for Brenen so A’mash could carry the loot. A second tent for disguising what they found, torches and more rope were routine items easily had. He closed his fist when seven travelers came into the tavern to start celebrating. Nag Kath was not sure if they were here for the wedding or business but they were in good spirits and the chairs were not warm before the first pitcher hit the table. More men joined them shortly after and the night started early. Nag Kath smiled on his way out and began exploring himself.

The ceremony would be held only two doors down. This was far enough from the centers of Elvish and Numenorean culture that the locals had their own views on the creation of man. Although destroyed and rebuilt many times before the ones standing today, these halls had been used to worship and sacrifice to gods and demons that did nothing to honor the Valar when Easterlings held the ground. Maybe there were Valar far away, living in leisure, but here were fell and dangerous spirits that did not bow to them. They had their own codes of conduct. They had their own thirsts. Folk were more modern now, but old women still let candles burn all night on certain days.

Nag Kath wandered into the large hall listening to his heels clicking on the stone floor. His step was lighter than a man’s but every noise echoed. There were few windows. Torch brackets lined the long walls every six feet and there were large candle rings above that could be lowered by ropes. Two men were loading those now to light the ceremony.

He did not sense the presence of darkness in the room. He tested the ‘color’, feeling nothing. Perhaps he had exhausted the Huntsman’s gift. More optimistically, maybe he did not feel the spirits because they were not there to be appeased. One might think that from the service of the fell wizard he would sense dark residuals, but orcs in thrall to actual sorcery simply had the world’s worst job. If there were malign humors, he couldn’t tell.

Wandering around the town he saw Brenen talking with a boy about his age, probably a stable hand. The lads each had a bowl of soup or stew bought for a half-groat at the corner shop. Nag Kath waved from across the street but did not approach. He had given his squire the day off.

As he reached the shop district, a troop of eighteen horsemen rode in from the west wearing similar coats and a Bard royal patch on their shoulders. Like the Rohirrim, they carried spears and side weapons. A quarter of them had bows across their backs. Nag Kath stopped to look as they rode by. He got a few looks himself. The shop area was only a few blocks square offering many of the same things as in Dale. He saw the bookstore but it was closed while the owner was teaching elsewhere.

A few minutes later, he arrived at the stable. A’mash and Vandery were with a dozen horses in the main paddock waiting for their dinner. Nag Kath sat on the top rail and considered the stock. Most of these horses belonged to travelers but a few were probably for sale. None looked promising. He would be meeting quite a few troopers, including the groom, who might know where to get a good horse. The public stable was not the place.

Back at the inn the party was just starting. He nursed an ale but declined their own fresh stew. One of the merchants left early so he was able to upgrade his room to one with a window for no extra charge. The next morning Nag Kath came downstairs for an early breakfast to find a trooper waiting for him. The man introduced himself and asked if Mr. Kath would join the Thain and his family for dinner at his Hall that evening. The Elf said he would be honored and got directions. 

Usually his gift would be given at the ceremony but he had already drawn their picture in Dale. A jewelry shop had a silver case that had not been engraved. The man put a fine velvet cloth pad inside and the gift was ready to present. The other stones were in his vest pocket.

The Thain only lived a few miles from the town on a good road. Nag Kath was there in twenty minutes and greeted at the door by Lancer (the local equivalent of Lieutenant) Conath who showed him into the main room. This was a country party. Outer Thains did not stand on ceremony. Thain Field Conath was a burly, friendly man with a thick chest and beard. Nag Kath had barely completed his bow when the man gripped his hand like iron saying, “You are quite some fellow! Thank you for coming for our modest celebration.”

“I could not be more pleased, Thain Conath. You live in a beautiful place.”

“We like it. I saw the drawing you made of my son and new daughter. Now I just have to get the first boy married for a matched set!” That brought a hearty laugh. The Thain took Nag Kath to the drink table and introduced him to his wife Hadista. She was the same shape as her man and threw her arms around the tall Elf with a huge, “Ohhhh.” Then she started to cry and was comforted by her second son. 

“From behind him, “You are an intrepid soul, Nag Kath. Not many of the Dale folk made the ride.”

He turned and bowed to the Princess. Married life suited her. She was wearing a dress and shawl in the fashion of the district without the tiara of the capital. The couple could now share quarters which would make the second ceremony less stressful. Ardatha gave him a canny up-and-down before saying, “Come, you need a beer.” The attendant had them lined on the table or filled empties brought by revelers.

Handing him a mug she said quietly, “Mother should be here in two days.” Looking him in the eye, “I think you frighten her. I don’t find you intimidating at all. You are a strange creature, Nag Kath.”

“Oh My Lady, you don’t know the half of it.”

She saw the Thain coming over and said, “Ah, Father Conath, I was about to tell Nag Kath about the luncheon tomorrow.”

“Quite right! Always organized! Nag Kath, I have known her since she was eight. Eight, right?”

“Or younger.”

He pronounced, “You are coming, of course. These folk present and friends arriving will stay here for the days of the ceremony. We will go out for a short ride and then put on the feedbag. Give you a chance to meet some people.”

Nag Kath gave the Princess a secret smile, “I would enjoy that, Thain.” To Ardatha, “Oh, before I forget, where is that handsome husband of yours?” He was nearby and walked over. Pulling the silver case from his tunic he presented it to the Lieutenant. “You will need someone to clean and mount them for you but they are a matched pair, just like you and your lady wife.” With that he bowed to them both. Young Conath opened the box in front of the Princess and they both gasped. Her royalty was lately arrived and country gentry were not bejeweled.

Thain Conath said with authority, “Good, that’s settled! Do you shoot?”

______________-------______________

He was up early. Brenen was enjoying himself. Despite the leeway Nag Kath allowed him, he was still a dock rat in Dale. On the road he had been shown some respect. Today he was going to be a squire, which was still up from dock rat. Nag Kath wore ordinary clothes with a jacket. He also brought his bow and a quiver holding an assortment of arrows. Nag Kath’s understanding was that this would be a ride before lunch. It was actually a brunch before riding before heavy tea. These people took eating seriously.

Brenen joined the servants gathered at the end of the long house. In a true hunt some of them would fetch game, arrows and refreshments. Today most would stay here. Nineteen men mounted and waved goodbye to their females who would use their riddance to discuss important matters of the day. They were all impressed with the Princess’ jewels. Ardatha was the step-daughter of a respected merchant here and everyone knew her. She put on no airs.

As their men trotted out the path towards a copse of trees, a fellow much like Reyald pulled alongside Nag Kath to say, “Thank you for coming. I am Torrald Conath.”

“I am honored. My name is Nag Kath.”

“Is this your first visit?”

“It is. I hail from the south but am much in Dale of late.”

“I see your blade. I was in Rohan as a lad. You will find folk here much like them.”

“Some of my favorite memories are of the Mark and people there. I traveled from Gondor with a train of men wounded in the war and got to know them. If your folk are alike, I will enjoy your company.”

“Your bow is of local make. Let us see what there is to shoot!” With that, the young Captain, he supposed, rode to the right joining older friends of the Thain. Nag Kath had decided if this was a hunt he would barely miss his targets and scare them away. If they were plinking at targets, he would do his best. 

This turned out to be target practice. Men who might have been archers at one point brought their bows. They would pull the string along with the muscles in their backs for old times’ sake. And they would do so fortified by ale brought in small casks on the backs of their retainers’ mounts. When they stopped to refresh, the groom came over and wished him good morning, and thanks again for the stones.

“Lieutenant, there is …”

“Reyald, we are friends here.”

“I need to get another horse for my trip home. My lad is on a mule and the poor boy is wearing out his backside. Who should I talk to about that?”

The man looked at Vandery. “Something for yourself or your lad?”

“Me, I should think. Vandery and I have been through much together. He is a gentle nag and perhaps a better mount for the youngster.”

“Consider it done. And before you make a show of paying, you’re money won’t spend in Buhr Austar. You will take one of mine and I will brook no argument. It may chip away from what my Lady and I owe you.”

“Reyald, my gifts are always given with no thought of return. You owe me nothing, though I will accept the horse and treat him, or her, well. Consider it the start of a long friendship.” They both smiled and watched retainers place several targets in the grass. One was like Sergeant Dedlan’s straw bundles. Another was a round target slightly better than two feet across. That was placed on a pendulum held on a stand and rocked back and forth with a cord held well away from the line of sight.

Thain Conath burped and announced, “Hear, hear! It is early for militia training but the men of the district …” He nodded to others in the group, “… and sister districts of the east are always prepared for battle and glory!” 

Savoring the moment; “To celebrate my son’s marriage to our own Ardatha, who is much up in the world, we shall shoot in their honor! The top five on the red stripe move on to the round. Five arrows each. You know the rest. Charge your mugs and let us begin!”

They did not draw lots for the order of shooting. The older fellows generally went first. A few had kept in training and did well. Some missed every time and waved at the straw bundle as the one that got away before finding their mugs. The next men looked like soldiers and most put three or more arrows in the red. One man got all five. The Thain managed three and was acclaimed a right good fellow!

Nag Kath was called about three quarters in. He also put five in the red at about chest height. As usual, the practice arrows sank well in. Men murmured. He suspected coins were being pledged, and not groats either. Both Conath boys put four arrows in the red. With two men at five and six at four, the six had another round to cut that number in half. The groom just missed but his brother moved on.

The Thain was enjoying himself, though he was not pouring down the ale as fast as his contemporaries. “Very well done, my lads!” It was time for the serious betting. “We have five worthy fellows. One of them is an Elf! Now, of course, they expect to whip us country folk handily. But I say; let us show them we are heroes as well!”

That raised shouts of; ‘Hear, hear!’ in fellowship. Thain Conath had warmed them up, “Next we have the moving target. Arrows hitting anywhere count. You fellows gather round for your lots.” They reached into a hat with folded paper and pulled numbers from one to five. Nag Kath’s was three.

The elder Conath son was first. With the target swinging gently in a six-foot arc, he put two of six arrows in the disk. Shooting first was a disadvantage since the others could watch the trajectory so the first shooter got an extra arrow.

The second man only managed one and looked cross until cheered by his friends. Nag Kath got four but only one was near the center of the target. It had been last fall since he shot at the swinging log. The fourth man also sunk four and the last man sunk two.

Thain Conath stood tall and declared, “We must shoot again. We have trooper Ethan and Nag Kath.” The Thain pulled a nipper and told Nag Kath, “Since you are the guest, you call the coin. Tails is the picture of the tree. Heads is, well, I don’t know who this one was … a king!” Nag Kath went first.

He must remember his breathing! The changeling put the first four arrows dead center and missed completely with his fifth. He was not here to show off. The trooper put three arrows close to the center as well but the first missed and his last nicked the edge but could not hold. Nag Kath was acclaimed the master bowman, or bow-Elf of the day and it was time for more ale. After another mug, everyone rode back to the Hall for lunch with their ladies-fair.

_____________--------_____________

A boar had been smoking in an underground fire since the night before and was carved while the men were shooting. In the fashion of the country, people high and low took a plate at the front of a long table and helped themselves, though some helped others or had servants get theirs. Hadista presented Nag Kath with a blue ribbon for his achievements. Worn on a cap in the Buhr Austar it meant high honor.

The large room was usually open but it had been furnished with small tables. Everyone seated themselves. Some were talking business, some army, some old times. When the couple next to him excused themselves to greet arriving friends, the Princess took one of their stools. “They say you missed on purpose.”

“Hitting a moving target is not an easy thing.”

“No doubt. Now, what about you? Mother is both fascinated and terrified. The Queen thinks you are splendid. She has become my friend. The King gets a far-off look when your name comes up.”

“You must have it all, I take it?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. I was a fell Uruk-hai of the wizard Saruman. That’s a big orc. I don’t know if we were up here. Through unintended craft, I am the only survivor and changed into an ancient Elf. I have minor sorcerous powers and can heal with a touch. That included the Queen and her babe, though I introduced her to a more experienced healer who deserves most of the credit.”

Not put-off at all, she confirmed, “You’re an orc?”

“Afraid so, and probably a wizard too, if I applied myself. I haven’t told Eniece but she must have gotten wind. It is not really much of a secret. She is so fair and I did not want to bring her pain so I have not pursued her. I confess; I am much taken with her and think of her often. You have already discovered that.”

She grabbed this topic like a terrier, “But you are not an orc now, correct?”

“Correct. Wizards and great creatures have wrung that from me. The Elves tolerate me but make no claim. Between us, they can be terrible snobs.” He gave the sort of grin Elves found so appalling. “No, my Lady, I am what I seem.” More seriously, “But I am also very dangerous. I do not care for killing. I have only just found a place where I do not have to.”

She shook her head, “I can’t pair my poor mother with an ancient evil,” said like a hostess not seating the Gravediggers' and Lamp Makers' Guilds at the same table. 

The grin was back, “Next Thursday will be my fourth birthday.” That got him the first actual look of disbelief. “I do not know how long I will live. Uruk-hai were full-grown at birth but only live six years, give or take. I have never been in a position to celebrate a birthday. For my seventh, I intend to get stinking drunk.”

“Is that why the King is so cautious?”

“I don’t think he knows about the Uruk business. He saw me pull a dread poison from her Ladyship so he knows I am more than I appear. And, of course, I scolded him to be more kingly. The Queen seemed to appreciate that, but he has not said. We have never spoken alone.”

The Princess said matter-of-factly, “I need to get my ducks in a row. To summarize; you are a former fell creature who is now an Elf but not of their society. I suppose that means you won’t be sailing away soon. You might live two more years or forever. You draw lovely pictures that make people happy and don’t like killing them.” Tenderly, “And you are very sweet and kind to those in need.”

Nag Kath thought a second and agreed, “That about sums it up. And now I am mooning like a calf because I am smitten by your mysterious mother. I dare not force her because I come so heavily laden. There are those who think I am Sauron himself waiting to crawl forth. Methinks not, but my opinion is not always asked.”

Ardatha became a Princess Royal and arranged her hands in her lap before saying, “Nag Kath, I would love you as a step-father. I have enjoyed great fortune, and not just lately. But for the love of people who had nothing to gain I might have been a scorned foundling and ill-served. Now I have married the man I love. We cannot know the future. I will do what I can to help my mother rejoin the world of joy and light. What would you have of me?”

Nag Kath told her gently, “You have already done it. You are wise beyond your years. People will see that. The rest I must do myself.”

As if describing her own daughter, “She is not as worldly as she seems. She has protected herself. Go slowly. Now, let us join the others.”

Not much happened the next day. Nag Kath was quieter than usual. Brenen though he was contemplating good things. They did buy a small tent, two backpacks, several lengths of light rope and a bale of grain bags, for target practice. Brenen was not sure why they needed a bundle of torches and pitch but if it was to ward off wargs crossing the Iron Hills, he would hold them in both hands. 

Nag Kath did not treat him like a servant. He had to be so at the Thain’s lodge, but here in town they ate in the same restaurant and the Elf had a cot brought to their room so he did not have to sleep on the floor. With the silver he got two days ago he now had four of them hidden in various seams of his clothes. That was a brewer’s ransom where he came from. Dinner was capped when Nag Kath told him he was getting Vandery for his own. The Elf should receive a local horse as a gift from the Thain’s son. Brenen had become a fortunate cousin.

The big day arrived. Their inn was crowded with all manner of folk. In a larger place there would be a difference between the soldiers, townsfolk and tradesmen. Here, they all knew each other and had often done most of those things to make their community thrive. Every able man was prepared at sound of the horn to gather his bow and sword against enemies from the east. Such are the ties that bind.

The private vows and contracts were a formality. Those had been done in Lake Town. Nobody, including the Princess, knew what her stipend would be from the royal coffers, but she came into a small inheritance from her late step-father at marriage and that was plenty. 

People flooded into the hall well before the public vows so Nag Kath and Brenen found themselves towards the back. Half a head taller than the front row was the reddish brown hair that reflected both colors at the inn. A half-head taller himself, he had a good view of the proceedings. 

The town Magister called the Lieutenant’s best friend up for a few words. He was one of the troopers who made the first cut in archery. The man drawled some mildly embarrassing stories to put the audience at their ease. No doubt there would be better ones later. Then the Magister introduced the bride’s grandparents who were here all the way from Esgaroth. They did not look particularly old. He was fit and arrow straight. She was nearly the image of her daughter. Both were beaming like crescent moons.

It was a mercifully short ceremony and the hall was converted to a reception room by hauling casks and finger-foods out on tables lining the walls. A troupe of musicians started playing a reel like when Nag Kath met Talereth. She was much like Eniece. Was that his taste in women? 

The bride and groom stayed long enough to greet folk and then repaired to the Thain’s lodge. 

“I saw their picture.” She was as quiet as Nag Kath. He turned and bowed. “You captured her eyes beautifully.”

“Hello Eniece. Again, you look lovely.”

“Thank you. Ardatha told me you inquired. What was the word; ‘mooning’?”

“I think much of you. I hope it is not too obvious.”

“She told me other things too. My daughter is very observant. I trust her. I will trust you. I am going to the lodge now and will return to Esgaroth with my parents shortly. I hope you will visit me on the lake when you are back in Dale. Ardatha can tell you how to find me.” 

She held out her hand. Nag Kath held it for a moment, kissed it and she was gone.

The next morning a trooper was waiting in front of the inn with a handsome horse. He was a dark roan, like the Huntsman’s, saddled and caparisoned for cavalry. The trooper bowed and hoped Nag Kath would allow that the Lancer had other matters to attend. Somehow the lad didn’t smile so Nag Kath didn’t either. The steed was Regalo. He was four and his father was the famous Realtho. The man saluted sharply and was off on his own horse.


	35. Bounty

**_Chapter 35_ **

**_Bounty_ **

It was time for hidden treasure!

They retraced their steps, camping when light faded. Brenen had ridden Vandery before. A’mash had no complaints. Regalo was a cavalry horse used to close quarters with other beasts. There was some spirit there and Nag Kath took him at a run on their second day out to see how he responded. For a four-year old horse, he was very steady. Also four, Nag Kath hoped he could claim the same.

The night before they reached the hoard, Nag Kath asked Brenen what he would do if he had a hundred Florin. That is an age-old game; thinking of the future if an impossible sum of money landed in your lap. The lad considered it and said he would not use it to drink or mistreat his family. That was a better answer than Nag Kath would have managed. He decided that Brenen would share, though it would lose him his faithful servant.

Near noon they veered from the path towards the hills after a two wagon train going the other way was over the horizon. As usual, Brenen observed but said nothing. He was a lot like Nag Kath that way. They picked through the grasses until reaching a series of large boulders out of sight of the road and unloaded the mounts.

“Brenen, come sit by me.” Nag Kath gave him the thumbnail sketch of his origins, his powers, his ambitions and his hopes. The boy knew some of it and took the rest well. In his experience, creatures with no abilities at all were crueler.

“Now for why we are here; on the way by I smelled something faint but foul. It has happened before. I may be the last person in Middle-Earth who could tell. There is a troll hoard in those crags. I meant what I said about if you had a hundred Florin. This will change many things. I have decided that you are a fine young man and should have a share. We will have to keep this quiet. Do you accept?”

Brenen nodded quickly. Children of the docks understand such things.

“The trolls are long gone. We will need to go up there with the sacks and torches to load it. That is why we have extra rope and a second tent to look like ordinary merchants along the way. Vandery and Regalo will not like the smell of our findings. There is much light left so let us climb. And no fire tonight, not until we are well away.”

After loading their packs it took almost an hour of picking through the loose rock to reach the cave. It reeked to Nag Kath but Brenen did not seem to notice – remnants of the changeling's orcish sense of smell. By torchlight there was fortune and filth. Wild beasts had stayed here over the centuries as well. First came the money. Nag Kath could have carried it but there were handles on both ends of the box so they hauled it out together. His original estimate was light. It might hold eight hundred Florin in either full coins or nippers along with quite a few silvers. It was the only box, though.

The cup with the gems was next. There were twenty-eight stones, not including the eight he got on the first trip. Behind the rock where it sat lay four similar goblets with nothing in them. Those were double-bagged and put next to the cash. There were four swords. Two were made by men, probably in the Third age. They looked serviceable but swords were cheaper than whisker-fish in Dale and neither of them wanted to carry more bare steel down those crags than necessary. The third was the Elvish blade that caught his eye. It was an exquisite weapon and it was coming with them. The fourth sword was also Elvish but broken. Only the hilt and a four inch piece of the tip were left. The rest had rusted under a drip of water leaking down the wall. He kept the pieces. 

That was all Nag Kath had remembered from the first visit but with a second torch, they found some Dwarvish helmets, an Elvish helmet with the skull still in it and armor that had been discarded during the meal like crab shells, probably the owner of the sword. Kicking the dust revealed a small wooden box that had somehow survived the centuries. Inside was a half inch of pages written in Elvish script. Nag Kath had seen many of these and thought Scholar Thursen would like a look. These might be more important than the discards from Orthanc, perhaps the Nuralth? Everyone said it was a myth but if so, why did they keep looking? The uses orcs and trolls had for paper need not be mentioned in polite company but they hadn’t gotten to these. Nag Kath and Brenen each took a torch to see if the cave went further. Unless treasure was hidden behind a Dwarf door, they were done. They smothered the torches and assessed the loot. The gold and silver weighed about a hundred pounds so they needed two trips using the backpacks on the loose rocks. Upon reaching camp with the first load, Vandery and Regalo recoiled at the smell so Nag Kath and Brenen stashed their booty-bags along the creekbed.

It took until dusk to get everything down. Nag Kath held the sword tip in his hand. He felt something in it but did not know what. By the light of the Evenstar they rinsed the coins in their bags, cleaned everything, including themselves, and re-packed the trove in fresh sacks. 

After a quick breakfast, the animals were loaded. It was lighter than expected. With only one box of coins, A’mash handled the extra weight with merely four heehaws of complaint. Both horses were still nervous but settled down by noon. They made their way back to Buhr Wenjan trying to look like the hardest hard-put-upon salt peddlers on this forsaken trail. A campsite was as much as they could obviously afford but Nag Kath did ask about the mattress and got the name of a fowler in Dale.

They purposely waited on the south side of the river below Erebor so they would arrive home at dark. It had started to drizzle. No one was in the street. Too late for the stable, the animals would have to stay tied to the posts until morning.

There would be no sleeping tonight. 

They got away with it. 

__________________-------_________________

At dawn, Brenen dumped the money sacks on a blanket spread over the dinner table. None of the coins were so old they would cause suspicion, other than looking newer than the same vintage not hoarded by trolls. All counted there were seven hundred sixty one Florins, a hundred eleven nippers, two hundred seven silvers and a half by half by one inch ingot of what looked like silver but was lighter. 

It was quite a haul.

Nag Kath had to consider for himself what to do with a pile of money. He did not think life would change much. This house needed a few things but he liked it and lived a modest lifestyle. He liked throwing parties. Those were cheap. He would keep painting, healing and honing his fighting skills. For now, he did not want to develop what might be considerable sorceries. People needed a generation or two before no one cared if the last known orc was learning black spells.

Some of it depended on Brenen. Some depended on Eniece. 

Brenen first. 

They had tea after the counting. Did the boy want to live here, with his mother or somewhere else. That was easy. He would stay here for now. They talked about making a bigger splash someday in Dale society. Brenen would be introduced as his junior partner. That meant more new clothes.

Nag Kath said he would give him a third of the cash, which came to about two hundred fifty Florin. There was a small legal problem. Since Bren was not yet sixteen, his father could claim a child’s money as his right. The lout might be dead. He might be lurking. He might get wind of this and show-up on the doorstep a changed man for a day.

They marched to a Notary’s office. A nipper got the man’s undivided attention to draft a contract that almost all of Brenen’s share would be put in the Royal Bank in Nag Kath’s name. The day after he turned sixteen, he could claim it. If Nag Kath was dead or gone, the Bank had instructions to give him a Florin a month until then. Brenen thought that a capital idea but wanted to do something nice for his mom so he kept twenty nippers.

Nag Kath would give Eniece another week to reach Lake Town. He had ridden by but hadn’t been out on the long dock. It was only a two hour trip. No one gave him her address. She would not be hard to find with her parents and the Rulverics known to the community.

After lunch, Nag Kath brought the Elvish sword and pieces to Aulë the swordsmith. 

My, did this customer have interesting weapons?! 

Aulë laid the sword on the same cloth and looked at it for several minutes, He tested the balance and weight and sighted along the blade. “A fine weapon. In good condition too. I put this around the middle of the Second Age, but mind, that is an educated guess. One of the scholars will know from the runes on the hilt and blade. Made for an officer of their people, I should think. But I have no idea where or whose. Was there a scabbard?”

“It had rotted away. Can you make another?”

“Certainly, but I need to consult the archives.” The Elf had shared some secrets. Aulë would too. “Not all the Elvish weapons from the Five Armies made it home. Some are in private hands. I may be able to buy one or at least have a close look. If the latter, I will need to hire-out the leather-work.”

Nag Kath said, “And then there is this.” He unwrapped the broken sword fragment and hilt, laying them next to the sword.

The smith asked, “Do I even want to know where you got these?”

“Family heirlooms.”

Aulë looked at it for a moment and said, “Same type of weapon from the shape. You will need more than a scabbard.”

Nag Kath ventured, “For some reason, I think this is older, perhaps much older. And I can’t even tell you why.”

Aulë said, “Again, the writing will tell the story.”

Out of the blue, Nag Kath asked, “Can you recommend a Dwarvish smith who works in mithril?

Aulë raised his eyebrows and offered, “Golord, in the compound just outside the Erebor Gate. Be careful. Any mention of mithril gets their hair up ... and that’s a lot of hair. I’ll have a sketch for your scabbard in a week.”

Asking for Golord brought uneasy stares. He did not barge in. Durin’s folk work hard but at their own pace. Once it was known he wanted a word with the longbeard, Nag Kath sat on a bench outside the heavy doors and waited for an hour. He was about to leave when a young Dwarf walked out and shut the door behind him.

“Heared you’re lookin’ for Golord.”

“That’s right.”

The fellow, Nag Kath guessed forty from the beard, looked the Elf over closely. Nag Kath did not seem like a villain and was patient so he would start the next round of questions. “How can Master Golord help you?”

“I wanted to speak with him about a commission in steel and other alloys. He comes recommended.”

“I am his nephew. What manner of commission, may I inquire?”

Very slowly, Nag Kath took a sketch from his coat pocket. “I have the steel for the blade. It would need to be worked cold to keep the temper. Then, I want a locking handle of steel with alloy plating that would fold like this.” He took out his quill knife to demonstrate the pivot.

“I broke the tip off mine a few months ago. Time is of no moment. And I understand the price depends on the materials. If the Master considers the work, he can reach me at the address on the page to discuss whatever he needs. A deposit will not be a problem. Now, the texture I had in mind was recently seen by your own Master Tombor in Orthanc last spring. He might remember me. I would certainly be willing to wait until he has offered his counsel.”

That was quite a name to drop in the Kingdom of Dale. Dwarves went to and from Erebor every day. Perhaps Uncle Golord would send him to ask this of King Thorin III’s nephew.

Looking at the sheet, “Very well, Mr. Kath. Someone will contact you within the week, even if only to say we haven’t forgotten. May we keep the sketch?”

“Certainly. And if the Master recommends a better design, I am not married to this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kath. You have a fair hand. My name is Golach. It was nice meeting you.”

_____________--------_____________

It was time to go to courting. After being burned by the dragon three generations before; Esgaroth was rebuilt along the same lines with new wood. It reminded Nag Kath of Whilmina’s floating inn except the water level never got any higher. Floodwater just poured over the dam. The Long Lake was a commercial hub since boats, some quite large, could travel safely in all directions rather than taking wagons along the rugged coast. Most of the commerce of the Kingdom was spread around the Long Lake with two powerful Thainholds visible on the eastern shore.

Brenen knew the town from when his father fished these waters. Not much had changed. After two hours getting here, it took half an hour to find Eniece’s parent’s business. Nag Kath was glad he had just not strolled over the causeway alone. There were canals, walkways and uncounted dead ends. He knocked at the Borenne’s shipping office while the lad loitered a few houses away.

A fellow who reminded Nag Kath of a young Tallazh said, “Good day, sir Elf. How can we assist you?” 

“I am looking for Mr. or Mrs. Borenne. My name is Nag Kath. The man asked him to wait at the counter and disappeared into the back. There would be no sneaking up on anyone in Esgaroth. Even the changeling made the boards groan. The man came back with the stately lady he recognized from the hall in Buhr Austar.

“I am Mrs. Borenne. We were told you might call.” The woman looked even more like her daughter up-close but there was something else familiar. “She was right, you are comely.” With Eniece’s same smile, “She lives in her husband’s home on the Vu Ednal. Number twenty six. I would tell you but it is easier to take you.” Looking at her clerk, “I won’t be long. Don’t forget the figures.”

“Already done, ma’am. See you shortly.”

The woman walked down the stairs and towards Brenen. Nag Kath explained, “He is my guide.”

Without slowing she commanded, “This way.”

Five minutes later they arrived at a two story building a block from a major canal and docking area. This was the merchant’s quarter and well away from the fishing boats. The woman pointed up the stairs, “You have to take it from here, young man.” And then to Brenen, “Come with me. I have strawberry tarts just out of the oven.” He did not have to be told twice.

Walking up the stairs was as loud as any knock but he rapped several times on the heavy oak door. A peep flap creaked wide at the height of his chest so he leaned down and said, “Nag Kath to see Eniece.” The flap slapped shut and not long after the door was opened by the woman herself. As if still wondering if this was a good idea, she finally said, “Please, come in.”

Nag Kath was not sure what to expect on a floating city. Houses were actually on large docks rather than floating individually but there was still a perceptible sway. The home was very tasteful with excellent light from real glass windows. She asked, “Would you like tea?”

“If it is no trouble.”

Eniece went to the kitchen and returned with a pot and two small mugs. Whoever had opened the peep flap was nowhere to be heard.

She said, “Ardatha thinks very highly of you. She is a perceptive girl, woman now.”

“Did she grow up here?”

“Here and in Buhr Austar. She was underfoot at mother and father’s too.”

“I am not usually so bashful, my lady, but I have come to court and see if you would keep company with me. Perhaps we could start with dinner and no expectations.”

“Not my eyes?” Her eyes sparkled when she asked.

“It might be months before I get to your eyes.”

She looked in her lap, “I am frightened, Nag Kath. You seem in so many ways to be kind. But there is much beyond my ken. You are not entirely of this world. I lead a safe, simple life. I am not sure I want that now. You must be very careful with me.”

The Elf collected the red-mouthed lad at the shipping office and rode back to Dale. He had a date. Two days hence he would return here for dinner. 

She answered the door in one of the pale dresses that did so much for her complexion. Like her mother, the years would be kind. She must be thirty four, about the same age as Kataleese. What made her special was grace. She flowed. She made no noise as she walked, even on the creaking boards of Lake Town. He wondered again if she had Dúnedain, or even Elf, in her blood. Eniece led him to the couch and walked to a small bar on the side of the main room. “I have ale or wine or barley spirits.”

“Wine, thank you. Barley spirits go to my head.”

“That is what they are for, silly.” She sat demurely next to him. “In some ways you seem very childlike. I must know, are you really only four?”

“A couple weeks ago. I was made full-grown.”

Eniece was at ease now. She would see where this led. They talked for almost an hour, and not all about fell lords and horror. She accepted all those things were true. Now she needed to know if she liked him. Nag Kath could tell funny stories without being hurtful. He did not swear. He did not try to be something he was not. He told her about the little man selling pies and tricking the Wild Huntsman into letting him go. There were Gandalf’s fireworks and Thranduil’s astonishing halls. He had pictures of them. 

Her world was entirely of men. Droll stories of magical creatures, including him, seemed so far away. At a lull in the conversation there was a loud knock at the door. She excused herself and he rose to get more wine for both of them. Eniece returned to the dining table followed by two small men holding steaming hot platters of food. They arranged the plates on cast iron grates with cork feet, bowed and were gone in minutes. Dinner was served.

It was good. Neither of them ate much. Afterwards, they walked back to the couch and chair. It was time to go. Nag Kath did not sit down. He kissed her very gently on the lips. He felt he could have kept going but would not risk that. Touching her face he said, “I am enthralled. Next time we will have dinner in Dale. But I will wait to hear from you, though it seems to take forever. Good night.”

Three days later, her note arrived. Would Friday at six serve? She would be there unless she heard otherwise.

She came by carriage. They went to a restaurant Nag Kath knew did not include meat in every dish. It was an expensive place, not lordly, but folk bathed before going. It was her turn to tell. She was fifteen when the Heir of Dale became infatuated. She had been visiting friends of her parents and word spread that an exotic female from the lake was here. The Prince was a man of appetites and just rid of his loathed wife – not that she stopped his lusts, but now there was no complaining after. 

Eniece did not want to go into details. Nag Kath needed none. She returned to the lake and had her beautiful baby who was loved and nurtured as all in this world should be. The King sent a purse to her parents. Ardatha was never needy but not spoiled either. Eniece later married a widower who lived in the east using an office here to distribute goods around the lake, the most populated counties in Dale. Before the ring war he contracted a lung ailment that never got better. Besides raising her daughter, she sewed, read, visited friends and spent time with a charity that helps women care for their babies. She tended wounds in the siege of Erebor. 

Now that her daughter was married, it was time for more. Speaking slightly out of school, she had met the current King several times, once with the Queen. The conversations were friendly but had no depth. He seemed a little sorry for her, knowing nothing done now could make amends. She did not feel sorry for herself and thanked him for his kindness to Ardatha. She had also had lunch with the queen privately. How could everyone be so wrong about her?

It was still light when they left so they had a stroll through the Old Town. He took her arm. She was tall enough that they could take the same number of steps. By chance, they met Burry heading home for dinner and chatted a moment. Eniece said proudly that Nag Kath won the blue archery ribbon last month. 

Nearing the Aventine Nag Kath said, “I’ll walk you to your friends’ home.”

“I did not tell them I am here.”

This would be different for him. In his limited experience, women had the knowledge and initiative. Brand had taken her roughly twice. Her late husband was a timid fellow who made few demands. There had been no one in-between or since. Despite her astonishing grace, she had never been with a man who considered her pleasure.

She was waiting. She had always been waiting. And as she asked, he was very careful with her. 

____________------____________

After a sporadic courtship, the result was quite traditional. They were an attractive couple. They paid their taxes, tipped well and were kindly. He seemed an Elf but everyone knew Elves lived with each other and all looked alike. She was mysterious and known to be tangentially royal. 

Nag Kath spent as much time as he could with her but that was still only a few days a week, either here or on the lake. And he still had chores. Aulë tooled the scabbard after it arrived from the leather-man. It was a work of art, like the sword it sheathed. He touched-up the hilt with wax and abrasive paste.

Scholar Thursen was delighted with the new documents. These might say more than the castoffs from Orthanc. The writing on the sword hilt was the language Quenya from the First Age or the Years of Trees but he could not be more specific. It was both a dedication and a blessing but the owner’s name had probably been etched on the blade.

Was that why the tip felt so alive in his hand? Gandalf’s sword of the same era glowed blue to show orcs. This shard did not glow at all. That should be good news, but were they all made that way? The great Bilbo had a dirk that showed brighter blue and took him to such heights! But wait! Nag Kath had colors of his own. He held the sword tip and closed his eyes, concentrating on its essence, its aura. It warmed in his hand and he peeked to see it glowing silver, like his healing humor. Was silver Elvish? It wasn’t much to go on.

A week after his visit to the Dwarvish enclave, Golach knocked. Nodding terms with Tombor had clout. Of course, it increased the chance the local Dwarves knew his orcish heritage. That was drinking conversation at Orthanc. The Dwarves and Rohirrim had the least traditional animosity and the most fondness for Rohan red so they carried on well past when the other representatives called it a night. 

Nag Kath decided he was a citizen now. It was unlikely the population would rise-up to burn him. He would always be strange. It was also why he liked cities. The smaller the place, the more likely everyone did the same things for the same reasons. Here there were small pockets of common purpose, but for the most part, people had their own lives and learned to get along.

Golach was just the messenger. “My uncle will see you. Is tomorrow at two convenient?”

“That would be fine, Golach. Thank you for coming all this way yourself.” That was a compliment most men would not include. It implied that the youngster did important work. Nag Kath extended that courtesy and Dwarves appreciate courtesy. 

“You are welcome, Mr. Kath.”

The next day he still had to wait on the bench for a little while. Time to Dwarves was an approximation. An appointment only meant that both parties agreed to meet. Half an hour later he was shown in the doors by an even younger Dwarf and led deep into the compound. 

Master Golord’s first-floor workshop was open to the second story with good light filtering in from clerestories ringing three sides. He was a little taller than the usual Dwarf with brilliant dark red hair showing gray. Nag Kath was no expert but he put the fellow at a hundred and twenty, prime age for these people. The Dwarf offered his hand, not something most Elves would appreciate, and it was gladly accepted.

Golord said, “I confess, I have never considered a commission for an Elf before.”

“Then you still have to wait, Master Golord. I am of mixed parentage.” With no reaction, Nag Kath added, “I hope my drawing was adequate.”

“Aye, I understand you do that for a living.” Perhaps that was why he considered the labor. Nag Kath was a working man. Even Dwarf princes put in a full day doing something useful. One of the tensions between Dwarves and Elves was that Elves did not seem to work much. They did, but they were so efficient it didn't show.

“You mentioned my cousin in Erebor. He said you were a good fellow with excellent taste in ale! His Dwarves retrieved a number of items we thought lost forever. I thank you for that kindness, Mr. Kath. Please, have a seat.”

Master Golord’s workshop was also an area of business. He had the same type of chairs Brenen found that could accommodate people of different sizes. The chair was already adjusted for him. Nag Kath sat after slowly producing his quill knife and laying it on the table. The Dwarf opened it and examined the locking blade feature. It was familiar to him. Then he said, “I suppose it is none of my business, but why not have this made by a Dalish smith?”

“It is a matter of the materials.” Unwrapping the shard, Nag Kath said, “I believe this is a fragment of a Years of Trees Elvish blade. As I told your worthy nephew, I would prefer it cold-worked to leave the temper as-is. And then there is this.” He produced the small silvery bar and laid it next to the shard.

The Dwarf picked it up and examined it closely for a minute before taking both metals to a small anvil. He dropped them separately on the face from a foot high. The sword tip seemed to ring forever. The silver ingot made a dull click. Golord came back, placed them on his table and sat down saying, “I have never seen raw mithril. I don’t suppose you have any more?”

“Nay, that is all. I think it is enough to alloy with your fine Durinbord steel for something as small as the knife case. Perhaps even a little extra. If so; I am not concerned with the difference.”

“I would need to do some of the work in Erebor. Only the Fundin forge is hot enough.” Master Golord was lost in thought for a moment and then said, “There is another possibility. This ingot, in this form, is worth more mixed with silver or gold than tool steel. In Erebor I can probably lay my hands on metals that have already been alloyed for your purposes. If so; would that serve?”

“I could have no objection, Master Dwarf.”

Golord took a big breath and exhaled slowly, “Very well. I will speak to my people under the mountain and let you know.” He slid the components towards the Elf.

“Perhaps you should keep those for the time being.”

“You are a trusting soul, Mr. Kath. I will have one made in ordinary steel first, just to make sure the design is functional. This may take time.”

“The honor of your people is legendary and I am in no rush, Master Golord. Your nephew knows where to find me.” 

_________________-------________________

Nag Kath and Eniece were very happy together. She decided that whatever he was, it was just fine. There would be surprises. After being spurned, Eniece made her life orderly to protect her from pain. This man relieved her pain. And he knew things the two other men had not that made her feel warm; at times careful, others urgent, always just what she wanted.

After two months of trading time between Dale and Esgaroth, they decided to marry. The harvest would be in early this year. Once militia training was over they would have the ceremony on the lake and a celebration here. At some point they would return to Buhr Austar for her people there.

Now, what to do with Brenen? He was a faithful retainer but he was also filthy rich. The solution was quite elegant. Their money in the bank earned little. There were attractive properties around Dale that paid good rents. Kathen Properties was chartered and they started buying structures that needed a bit of work. The builder who fixed their roof was engaged and then the places were rented. They mostly bought business’ rather than homes because it was the renter’s job to keep them up. Brenen bought an apartment for himself in a nicer section of town as part of his immersion in society. Nag Kath liked his home and so did Eniece. They also had hers on the lake.

The couple talked about money. The King offered Eniece a generous stipend as mother of his Lady Sister. She thanked him but could not accept. Her husband had left her comfortable and one day she would come into her parents’ legacy. Mostly she did not want to be beholding to the crown. Nag Kath had already explained his situation. It came as no surprise. Elves were always rich, even if he wasn’t really an Elf. She liked Brenen. He was doing most of the work on the property business. His cousin Bard was working as well. No one had heard from Brenen’s dad in months. 

The Elf was not sure which militia training to take. He poured half a pitcher down Burry and the big man said the only thing left in soldier’s archery was learning to shoot in formation. Near the bottom of the pitcher Burry admitted that was mostly a matter of being able to tell your right hand from your left. Since he had a cavalry horse, the Sergeant would introduce him to a Lieutenant Curtheon. Sergeants usually avoid Lieutenants so that was high praise.

On training day, Nag Kath arrived with Regalo in the same tack from Buhr Austar. He wore his Rohirric sword. The first blatant shortcoming was that he had no armor. Everyone else had thirty pounds of plates and mail. Sometimes their horses did too. Since they wouldn’t fight any Easterlings this week, he had time to get properly fitted later. 

Regalo saved him. The horse knew exactly what to do even when Nag Kath didn’t. The Elf had learned to be a fair horseman alone and being lighter than men helped the steed’s speed and stamina. Five days in was spear-training. He had never carried a spear. That was the primary weapon of the Uruk-hai but he was a messenger. His pod were runners because they were usually beaten bloody by the heavier Uruk pike and swordsmen. If being scrawny was Saruman’s legacy, things could have gone worse.

They practiced spitting loose straw bundles individually. A successful spear hit on a man destroys or loses the weapon. There is no wrenching it out of an enemy at a gallop. Most spears shafts were weak at the head to break on the intial impact. That’s why you have the sword. If unhorsed, you use whatever is to hand. 

Many of the Rohirrim and a few here carried what they called ‘Fine Axes’ in addition to or in place of a sword. It was a steel head that only weighed about two pounds with a curved hatchet face for flesh and a spike on the other side for armor. The arm's-length shaft could be turned quickly and usually had a lanyard through the handle to stay on the wrist if the grip was lost. The lanyard was thinned so as not to tear a man’s arm out at a gallop if the weapon could not be pulled free.

After stabbing straw, the group practiced charges in formation but not with targets. That was too dangerous. Even if everything went right, spears would buckle or hold so the butt hit the rider behind. Horses tripped. If your opponents stood their ground, even a successful charge lost two in ten.

Lieutenant Curtheon had forty mounted men in his training group. They usually worked in two different squads on attacks but together in fanning out and closing formations. Nag Kath instantly saw what Burry saw; Curtheon was not a fancy soldier. He had a two-part ear split by a scar down his cheek. It was a good thing the Lieutenant did not lead the Revanthars at the granary.

Curtheon would also have a beer after work. The traditional military hierarchy did not hold in training. Prominent men who spared no expense on horse and kit served in the reserve cavalry levies. They would be acknowledged. Nag Kath survived training, made a number of new friends and was fitted for armor in the mannish style. Again, he had to talk the armorer out of “Elvish Elements.” 

He also knew that if it came to war, his uses would be behind enemy lines.

_____________--------_____________

It was time to get married! There were professionals who helped with such things. Eniece engaged Mr. Turn. This fellow could mind a dozen problems at once. If the palace had him, the Carstors would have been hitched in a thrice. Nag Kath wrote the invitations himself. He had no idea he knew so many people. Bard delivered to local folk and packets were sent to Esgaroth. Dwarves were invited. Hobbits were invited. This was not a statement of prestige. They asked people they liked.

The night in Esgaroth, Eniece was very quiet. She must have been wondering how things could have changed so quickly. But she was ready and deeply in love. Nag Kath’s view of commitment was different than most. He would probably live to see Eniece die. He would love her as much then as now. People often thought commitments impede freedom. He thought the opposite. Once one had a clear idea what they wanted, distractions were easier to ignore.

Vows on the lake were dignified. Mr. and Mrs. Borenne were very proud of their lovely girl. Eniece had married once for security. Now she was marrying for love. The Borennes married for love and it sustained them. The Rulverics were there and held court with stories of the old days when Eniece was little. Nag Kath had no people there to speak for him. One of Eniece’s many friends from the lake was her Lady's-Sayer. Nag Kath knew she had a fatherless child at about the same age. Eniece cried. Friends came to her parent’s home afterwards and were mostly home by dark.

The event in Dale would be a bit different. Mr. Turn engaged the Merchant’s Guild Hall for the large ceremony. There was no pledge formality since both bride and groom spoke for themselves. Several guests who started celebrating well before nuptials had funny stories about Nag Kath. The Rulverics came here too and said nice things about their honorary niece.

Everyone had a wonderful time. That Nag Kath could throw a party! A cask of red beer was specially brewed for those who preferred it to the local tan. Nobody cared. The newlyweds slipped out a side door while the event was still raging for a private party of their own.

A week after the marriage Golach came to the home while Eniece was on the lake and asked if Nag Kath could return with him to the Master’s shop. They were admitted immediately and walked back to the studio. Golach came inside this time.

Master Golord was sitting at his table. In front of him were two knives. The Dwarf rose and walked to shake hands saying, “This took longer than I expected, but I made the case at the same time I made the working model. I found the material you needed.”

That thought produced the hearty chuckle Durin’s folk do better than anyone else. “There was more dealing than crafting in the mountain halls! You sorely tempted our smiths! I needed to reduce the strength of the spring – else you could never open it.” With that, the Master returned to his chair and slid the knives to Nag Kath.

Other than the slightly radiant surface, they were identical. Golord continued, “The one is plated in silver so it will tarnish.”

Nag Kath picked up the mithril knife and opened it with the small score on the back edge of the blade. It looked like it could cut without touching. Perfectly balanced, it closed easily. He looked up and said, “Master Golord, this is exactly what I wanted. I made the right choice in choosing your family.” Adding ‘family’ was another compliment. These people thought of family first. “There is the matter of your payment.”

Golord raised his palms and said, “Let us simply say that the ingot you brought was adequate.”

Nag Kath tried the test knife and it was flawless as well. He rose stating, “Now all that remains is hearing of your bargaining in the mountain hall over a pitcher of red at Druron’s tavern!”


	36. Creeping Shadows

**_Chapter 36_ **

**_Creeping Shadows_ **

Life slowed. Brenen did most of the property work. Not long after the marriage, Ardatha sent a letter with a merchant train that she would be coming to the capital with Reyald and the Thain, returning to Buhr Austar in the fall. A month later another letter arrived through the King’s post that Conath’s meeting was cancelled and she was expecting a child in early spring. Nag Kath and Eniece planned to visit friends and celebrate their wedding in Buhr Austar anyway so Eniece asked him if they could go and stay the winter for the baby. Nag Kath thought that splendid and they started preparations. 

In agreeing to go, Nag Kath had a request. Eniece only rode sidesaddle, as proper ladies did. Rough lasses from the provinces could ride however they liked. Perhaps in trying to make her the lady some suggested she wasn’t, her parents made her too demure. Nag Kath was never insisted she do anything, but he leaned on riding astride as much as he dared. It was more than making good time. Sometimes you were on a horse because you had to outrun someone else on a horse. He had enemies; known and lurking. In him they would find more than they bargained for, but that wouldn’t stop arrows aimed at her. She would try. 

The merchant caravan season was slowing since either of the roads could expect terrible weather in a couple months. Fortunately, the King and Queen offered an eight-man escort out the Dwarf Road. That included food and provisions for the cavalry men who had been this way many times. Nag Kath had not traveled that route and was glad of their company.

Eniece had a quick series of riding lessons with Fengulin, who taught ladies the skill. For all her physical grace, Eniece was not an athlete. On the second day, she pulled too hard on gentle Vandery’s reins. He stopped and she slid over his head. Thankfully she landed on her bottom. Nag Kath was more than happy to apply healing to the injured area but it got him nothing else for a week.

She was almost competent when Sergeant Gurrath reported to their home with seven troopers. They met before when two cavalry units formed for a three-deep charge formation on the last day of training. They knew nothing of each other in battle but the soldier thought the blonde man could handle his mount. The woman was obviously new to this. They were here to make sure she got across the country safely at her own pace. Eniece had crossed this road there and back nine times but always in a carriage with a merchant train protected by paid escorts. 

Vandery was borrowed for Eniece. They first crossed the river immediately before Lake Town on a solid bridge. That was the start of the Merchant’s Way leading to a more southerly town on the lake called Londaroth. From there the road was called the Wineland Way after the vineyards along the path. It veered left to skirt marshes along the River Running. Celduin Village was three days out. It was a nice little town at the crossroads of the Wineland Way and the Dwarf Road that continue south to the Anduin. Celduin was crowded with the last of the north/south trains. There was an inn with a room reserved for Nag Kath and Eniece, that or the soldiers convinced someone they would be more comfortable elsewhere. Nag Kath did not ask. It was clean and there was no bill.

The Dwarf Road was how goods made their way to most of Middle Earth from the Iron Hills. It divided the Nether and Upper Marches of Dale. Most of the fertile farmland in the country was along one of the two rivers that defined the Kingdom. Further in were bogs or sand. As important as the route was for trade, there were no inns or taverns. There were large, established campsites where merchant trains could gather for protection. Small bandit bands lived in the swamps. And you only traveled by day. The soldiers wondered why Nag Kath preferred the lonely northern route, but he was tougher than he looked.

Eight days out put them at two thirds through the marches. The ground wasn’t so low to either side of the road. At mid-afternoon, the van trooper rode back with his fist raised and pulled alongside his Sarn’t. Gurrath circled his hand in the air and everyone drew near. The van whispered, “Mounted men, at least eighteen in the swale between the last two hills on the right. And Sarge, they’re Lings.” Had they gone another quarter mile to an established campsite they would have been in plain sight. Their troop of ten horse should easily discourage local scofflaws but this was another matter. Gurrath looked around. They were exposed. It was half a day back or forward to defensible ground. Back was the only choice. The Sergeant nodded that direction and the train started walking. 

Nag Kath heard the arrows before he saw them, three or four from due south. One grazed a trooper’s thumb and another buried in a saddle pad. There was a small rise on the south side of the road a hundred yards ahead and they ran for it. One Atlier crawled to watch the north while the rest of the men peered over the ridge. Eniece and the last trooper held the reins. He gave her his helmet. Two larger flights were launched high to fall on them until their corporal shouted to save arrows. They were pinned.

An hour later at dusk, the Hour of the Evenstar, they heard the main troop from the hills pulling even with their position about two hundred yards south of the road in a low flat just out of sight. The choices were few. Either they could run in the dark or hope the attackers realized the pickings weren’t worth the risk at daylight. Gurrath decided to wait. If it came to it, they probably had the better horses, but no one liked their odds, especially if these were the Lings who made dog meat of the old Thain. What were they doing so far north? And why bother with penniless, armed soldiers on a merchant route? 

The troop ate dried rations. They could see the campfire glow of the marauders. About the ten-bell, some of the Lings walked to the ridge shouting taunts in their dialect. The troopers only caught enough words to not discuss them with a lady present. Three soldiers stayed on their side of the hill with another watching north. The other four, Eniece and her Elf huddled at the lowest point on the road. Nag Kath asked gravely, “Who are these men?”

A senior trooper replied, “Easterlings, though it is rare to see them mounted or so far from the rivers. These dougsh will be their elite.”

The changeling asked with a hint of orc, “What do they fear more than anything in this world or the next?” 

At high-night, he kissed Eniece, unsheathed his new sword and vanished into near blackness under a crescent moon. An hour later he was back. They would not have known except he left a bundle at the sentry’s feet.

First light brought wailing and shrieking from the Ling camp. A rider crested the ridge one hundred twenty paces from their hill and screamed a torrent of oaths. From their side, the troopers only heard, “kik, kik, kik, kik, whoooo”. The rider stopped yelling to look at an arrow buried in his chest. When his mare bolted forward, he rolled off her back. With luck she would reach them before the Lings shot her to not betray their fittings. Ten minutes later, fourteen riders trotted south, half with horses on leads. Nag Kath watched until the dust cleared on the next hill towards Nauthauja.

An eager trooper blurted, “We should go see.”

Gurrath growled, “Got at least six unaccounted for.”

Nag Kath murmured, “No. They are counted.” He was covered in blood.

_____________--------_____________

They kept a good pace, planning to ride until dark with no stops longer than the woman needed. Eniece rode next to Nag Kath who had A’mash in tow. The trooper got his helmet back and she wore a brimmed hat to protect her pale complexion. She licked her lips several times as if to say something that never came out. After a while he consoled, “I am sorry, my love.”

A tiny voice asked, “Are such things drawn to you, Nag?”

“No, but I get my share. If these were the men who killed that poor Thain, we were next. And then someone after us.” Whatever else needed saying could wait.

Were Gandalf’s concerns bearing-out? The changeling borrowed a page from Saruman’s book of terror for a just cause. The first time he used ‘the fast’ with a sword, men were coming at him. This time he took the attack to them. As his powers grew, would he use them for his own purposes? Was that the excuse? No one is the villain of their own Catanard. Nag Kath decided that those were choices he could only make if he was alive. And his darling was still alive too. That would have to do.

The troopers had questions of their own. Looking back they could see vultures already circling. The man cursing on the ridge was not insulting them. He was terrified. He was warding-off devils sent for their souls in sorcerous blood-letting! And the Elf?! They told their wives and sweethearts this was a picnic run; babysitting a high woman across the Dwarf Road to visit in-laws. And her pretty new husband was an artist, for Eru’s sake! At bedtime, they were soldiers. If the Kath wanted to do their work for them, let him! They should be under those buzzards, not the other way around. There would be two more nights of staring into campfires until they reached the Redwater River.

______________--------______________

The Lieutenant at Northwatch stared at the head. “No, never seen him. He’s a Northman.” Looking at the horse, “But that’s a Ling saddle and blanket, and no error!”

The young trooper tasked with this unpleasant bundle said, “There were maybe twenty more on the road two days back. The survivors were headed for the ferry. Thank you for looking at our new friend. My Sergeant asked me to remind you we are the King’s Private Guard. Our charges have to stay private. We’ll camp away from your men tonight, meaning no offense sir.”

“None taken. But those Lings are public and we will keep an eye out for more. Thain Durnaldar bought his end from the same sort, though in his own lands. Any idea what they are doing here?”

The trooper shook his head so the Lieutenant finished with; “Thanks for letting us know.”

Two days later the company went directly to Thain Conath’s stable, staying out of view until the cleanest of them walked to the lodge to ask for a word. The Thain and his first son walked out with two troopers. Eniece ran to them and threw her arms around her daughter’s father-in-law. Torrold got a hug too. Then she walked away from the men knowing they had dire business. Nag Kath went with her. There would be time enough for explanations. The men spoke for ten minutes, had a good look at the captured mare and then the Conaths walked back. 

Eniece brightened. She was with family. Her daughter and Lieutenant Conath were in town tonight at Eniece’s cottage. They could stay there. Cook threw a good meal together for all of them. Afterwards, Eniece joined Hadista and her maid so the men could talk.

“I think I’ve seen the man,” said the Thain. “Erland’s Ferry maybe. It has been a while. Sergeant Morgart can probably put a name on him. The horse bothers me more. Easterlings are foot soldiers. Only their very best ride. If they are scouting in strength, I want our eyes in Nauthauja peeled.”

His point was taken. Fighters of the Rhûnlands almost always crossed at or near Erland’s Ferry. They had the same problem as the Dunland hillmen; the worst land in the region. Middle Earth got its weather from the north and west. Places like east Eregion got too much rain. The Easterlings did not get enough. One in three years saw no rain at all in parts of their land. In the north, food could only reliably grow within a hundred miles of the river. Since the same clouds raining here rained there, the men of Dale generally knew how Ling crops would fare. In dry years, Thains were more cautious.

But this year boasted a bumper-crop. Moreover, these men were well off the border and up from the ferry. And what of the Northman with the swarthy raiders? He wasn’t a captive. He was probably in charge if the fine coat wrapped around his head was anything to go by. Sergeant Gurrath reported to the central army but he deferred to the Thain. If they were going to get answers, it was here. Conath was a likeable bear in peace but he was a fierce warrior in battle. That he respected the Elf mattered too. 

In the morning, one of the Thain’s men was dispatched to bring Reyald and Ardatha home. They were already on their way and arrived with the trooper fifteen minutes later at the barn. The royal couple walked up to the head sitting on a stump. Men scrambled in front of the King’s sister to protect her delicate condition. She pushed her way through with a frown, “Never seen him. Who is he?”

Her husband answered, “I have. That was Captain Monterrith, master of Durnaldar’s horse. I do not know if the son kept him on. It seems Monterrith has been keeping low company.”

Sergeant Gurrath said, “This is one of their mounts, sir. I do not know this land as well as you, but that saddle blanket is not army issue. 

Reyald gave it a good look and said grimly, “I’d better get inside.” Looking at his bride, “Your mother will need you.”

Her mother was making a late breakfast for those hungry soldiers and more arriving with orders not to seem in a hurry. Ardatha ran to her arms for a long hug before the Lieutenant got his. Eniece said, “Come, dear. Help me with the eggs. Reyald, your father is upstairs.”

The cook and her staff had this in hand but the elegant woman was doing good work and they knew it kept her mind off the slaughter. Mother and daughter walked into the main room and sat in the stuffed chairs below hunting trophies.

“I’m sorry mother. Was it horrible?”

“They kept me from looking, but yes. My Nag killed many like a fox in the henhouse. He scared the troopers speechless.” Ardatha thought they might have used a different word but her mother was a lady. Eniece continued, “I cried and I fretted but it doesn’t change anything. He is my husband.” She managed a small smile, “I expect this will set the tongues a’wagging in Dale! Now, tell me of your handsome husband.”

The handsome husband was talking with his father and brother upstairs. Conath was curious, “Aye, the boy took the Thainhold. This Monterrith, how do you know him?”

Reyald said gravely, “He was in Durnaldar’s company when we met two years ago at the Ferry, commander of the eastern horse. I would have thought him and the son thick as thieves, both about the same age. Monterrith had eyes on the daughter. Pretty girl. Always putting on airs about royalty. Ha! My own girl walked right up to the head and asked who he was. She’s a good ‘un, da. 

“Aye son, you chose well. Your mother and I are very proud of you and happy with your bride. My sons, you have better minds for these intrigues than your poor old father. What do you make of this Captain riding with elite Easterlings? The city Sergeant said they maintained discipline even after your new step-da carved them like ham. We’ll get to that presently. It seems to me if they settled old Durnaldar, they would have targets on their backs. Do you suppose Monterrith or the son were party to the assassination?”

Torrold considered that, “Good chance. I think a lady-love of the Captain should send him a letter at the Thainhold and we shall see who reads it.”

_____________--------_____________

Things settled down. Eniece was not a wilting flower. She stayed close to the lodge. Nag Kath spend a lot of time with her. He also did some explaining back at the barn. “Well, I am mostly Elf but also part wizard. I am very fast and like all Elves I see well at night.”

One of the troopers from the Dornlas school of comment cried, “And you spitted that Ling at a hundred and twenty paces!”

The Thain grumbled, “No surprise there! You missed that target on purpose!” All his got for his good humored accusation was a sheepish grin.

Nag Kath did say, “I am new to these plots. Help me make sense of them. The Thain of those marches was killed along with a handful of men hunting where there was no game by people who should not have been there. Now, his captain turns up with the same sort of folk. But all summer, they have not raided anything worth a filed fiver. My Lord Thain, that road fair teems with merchants. Why would they attack soldiers and what have they done in-between?”

Sarnt Gurralth chuckled, “They weren’t after my ten groats a week or anything we carried. That meant they were after someone. Who with us would matter to a pack of Lings?”

Reyald shook his head and said softly, “It wasn’t who was there. It was who was supposed to be there.” He looked at his wife, bearing an heir to the crown of Dale. The letter sent through merchants must have been read and resealed. This raid was ordered well in advance when Ardatha should have been in the party returning home. 

Thain Conath asked, “Nag Kath, do you need to get back to Dale?”

“No. Eniece intended to stay for Ardatha’s confinement. Things in Dale will attend themselves.”

The Thain addressed the city troop. “Sergeant Gurrath, you take your men home and inform the King that his friends in the hinterlands look to his guidance. We have heard nothing of infantry massing below, and they are noisy, quarrelsome folk. Our eyes in Nauthauja might not be what they were. Maybe these lads are outcast and helping themselves. If his Lordship could let us know quickly, the eastern Thainholds will be in his debt.”

“Aye, Thain Conath.”

“Good fellows, all of you. Thank you for protecting those dear to me. Take the horse. She needs a new home away from local eyes. Perhaps the northern route would be better.” The sergeant nodded. Conath concluded, “Fine, take your ease today. We’ll have you provisioned by breakfast along with a letter for his Lordship.”

**_To our High King of Dale_ **

**_Dearest Sire,_ **

**_Sergeant Gurrath and his men delivered their commission safely with great bravery. He will tell you of perils on the route._ **

**_What they do not know is the real Easterlings are more conciliatory since the war. Halting communications with their new Bror suggest that they are more interested in trade than fighting. I have no ears in their councils but it seems reasonable that the Bror would not send a squalid raiding party deep into our lands when he seeks accommodation. My feeling, and it is only that, is that these fellows are in league with factions that do not wish peace._ **

**_I will make inquiries about the Dalelander in their midst and send those tidings to you by fast riders._ **

**_On a personal note, your Lady Sister is a delight and you have a niece or nephew on the way._ **

**_With respect, Field Conath, Thain of Buhr Austar_ **

Torrold asked the same Lady Sister to copy a much different letter in a poor hand.

**_To Buhrl Monterrith, Office of Cavalry, Buhr Nauthauja_ **

**_My Dearest Buhrl,_ **

**_I am missing you terribly and count the owars we are a part. I no you will come for me soon and would not disterb you, but there is trouble here and you askt me to be your eyes._ **

**_Easterlings have openly visited the Master of Ironhold and perhaps further north. It is rummerd they are in league with Thains who grow weary of Bard’s rule since our own belovd Thain was called to his fathers. If my lady’s confidante tells truth, some number of ~~comby~~ combined forces now prowl the Dwarf Road._ **

**_Please, for my sake, do not go there in search of them or you may find too many._ **

**_Noing I will soon be in the arms of my only love, Sillience_ **

Torrold used his horse’s name. Two troopers were to ride like the wind and commandeer mounts at any station to get south. But when they arrived, one was to wear civilian garb and take the most moth-eaten nag in the paddock to deliver this back-dated letter at the cavalry office before appearing to get stumbling drunk at a tavern. The other was to camp on the main trail to the Nether Marches and see if anyone left that way in a hurry. After that, they should report back at good speed.

Nag Kath and Eniece found time for tenderness. They took walks around the fatherly Thain’s grounds, played Dukks for groats and had a cup of sweet wine before bed. The third ceremony had always been contingent on their arrival. When Eniece was herself, the Thain sent invitations for a grand celebration in a week’s time. The week was just as pleasant and Eniece enjoyed introducing her handsome man to all her old friends from town. 

While they relaxed, two tired troopers reported back. The clerk of the cavalry depot fair ran from the office to Thain Durnaldar II’s Hall. Twenty minutes later, six steeds left the stockade like their tails were on fire. Perhaps they would find the Easterling’s view of Northmen had changed.

One thing was clear; the boy knew something.

______________--------______________

****

Well, if the lover’s letter didn’t put paid to the man’s notions of marrying above his station, this certainly did. Young Thain Durnaldar dismissed his cavalry chief after he learned the man was riding with rogue Easterlings, probably on behalf of his father. The Sergeant of the half-troop sent to find them said, “Aye, sir. They were making for the Ferry. Did not want to fight, parley or celebrate. They saw us and detached a rearguard to watch until we were past, but they were leaving, no error.”

The young Thain chose his line of questioning carefully, “Only twelve?”

“They may have had van riders ahead, but we only saw a dozen, most leading horses behind them.”

“Why do you suppose, Sergeant?”

Theondul pulled his next words out like thorns, “It was a fearsome sight, sir. Seven men slain, some headless, no dead horses, no sign of a fight. One met his end with a goose-quill shaft but it had a sportsman’s head and no markings. It was as if ghosts dispatched them and vanished. Lings do not care for ghosts. They scratched black wards in the dirt near the bodies.”

“And Monterrith?”

“We think it was him. No head. Wild dogs found them before we did.”

As all leaders seem to do when thinking, Thain Durnaldar II stroked his beard between his fingers. He was twenty three and looked like his mother, making him more pretty than handsome. That favored his lovely sister who had trouble concentrating. Poor girl; she imagined herself in a fairy kingdom. They were far from that here. Life had been comfortable until their father had trouble with his bile and employed the healer. The hag was shown the gate after the massacre but that did not solve this new headache.

It wasn’t the Lings that got his da. The mercenaries would not have slain their cash customer or whoever was in league with him. Now they were showing their tails to this land. Ghosts! Probably for the best. With the evidence eaten by crows it was one less sore to salve.

“Good work Sergeant, I should say Lieutenant. We officers should keep this to ourselves, eh?”

As the new officer walked out on air, Durnalath skipped in. She was seventeen but seemed younger. “Dear brother, you look as if you saw a ghost.”

“Cares of the office, dear sister.” Was her head as empty as it seemed? “I was just thinking about father.” She became grave but said nothing. “I am sorry for our loss. He never confided in me about your future. What would you like for yourself?”

“Forgive me dear brother. I am not sure. Father imagined marrying me to a grand Lord. I do not think he had one in mind, else he would have sent me to a city for finishing, and to meet high persons.” 

She frowned, “It all changed with the woman. I never liked her. She was not like mother. She was a bog-tick. You were wise to send her away with all her spells and potions.”

“I thought she just treated him for gas.”

“You were much away with your men. No, they spent hours scheming. He was often confused, not himself at all. He paid me no heed, though I am a dutiful and thoughtful daughter.” In a distant voice she finished, “I will make a good wife someday.” 

He agreed, “Please give that thought, dear sister. My only concern is for your happiness.”

She will make a good wife. If Conath’s son likes girls, he should like this one. Now, just how far away had he sent the healer? He had a few questions.

So did King Bard. Conath’s second letter arrived ten days after the first. From what seemed reasonable evidence, the new Thain of Nauthauja was behaving like the old. He either had his own Easterlings or hadn’t put paid to his da’s. With the news that the Bror was keeping his men inside their borders, he agreed with Conath’s assessment that not all men of Wilderlands were in accord with their ruler’s policy. Young Durnaldar would know Easterlings had not removed his father. His hands were still tied though. No matter how this fell out, he needed friends. 

That also put Thain Fändul in a bind. The Queen’s father was an irascible Northman of the old ways. His fief stretched from Ironhold south to the ferry and into the marches as far as was worth going. It only took the merest mention that Durnaldar had been poisoning his baby girl and grandson to set events in motion; a blunt instrument, but not tidy. King Bard had not mentioned sorcery. It frightened and angered pious men of the southeast. No skinny women were among the known dead. Tensions to the south kept old wounds on Conath’s border to the north from festering. 

Perhaps Durnaldar’s girl might be of use after all. The King was told she was pretty and simple, just how they like them there. A strategic alliance between Nauthauja and a loyal Thain might heal the breach if the new Thain was not part of his father’s madness. Miss Quessan thought whoever devised the poison for the Queen could have addled the Thain’s mind in the bargain. It was time to get the Thains together and quash these squabbles.

Eniece and Nag Kath moved into her cottage in town. This had been her first husband’s eastern home and she spent about a third of her married life here. They engaged a woman for cooking and cleaning. Autumn was in full color and the newlyweds enjoyed their leisure with hospitable friends and in-laws. Everyone got a picture of themself. Eniece loved the star pictures, especially the one painted by the Elf in the Woodland Realm. It was one of his best, the only works they would ever let the rest of the world see. 

______________--------______________

Further south, Lieutenant Theondul walked to Thain Durnaldar at the hitch post and bowed. His Thain asked, “Have you secured the healer yet?

“No sir, there has been a problem.” Durnaldar did nothing, which was the sign for Theondul to continue. “I sent trooper Fellthur to tell her all was forgiven and she should return. She refused so he insisted. Then his face caught fire. It was not as bad as it looked but the woman vanished. He is being cared for now.” Theondul cleared his throat, “Sir, I need to know more about her.”

Theondul had guts. He reported what he saw and did not make excuses. The old Thain would have flown into a rage. His son was more practical. Time was solving some of his problems. His father’s Easterling mercenaries had been conveniently massacred or chased from his fief. Now, if his father wasn’t behind this latest outrage, who was? 

He had a fair idea that Fändul ordered his father’s assassination. What was more curious was that his father probably deserved it. He wasn’t sure why, but Fändul had not seized farmland below the ferry or even reinforced his borders. Young Durnaldar had always gotten along with the tough old Thain. This might be a good time to play stupid and let bygones be bygones.

The bargaining chip was his sister. She was fair and blonde which set the dark, bearded Northmen aquiver. At seventeen, it was time to test the market. Next year was the Thainmoot. Every other year, the eastern and southern Thainholds met under a flag of truce to discuss mutual interests. After the war it was in Erland’s Ferry, Celduin before that. Now that Bard had four years under his belt, he would host the event in Dale and include the northern chieftains as well. 

In most places, attendees had to worry about leaving the room in pieces, but in Dale, the King only personally commanded about a quarter of the men at arms. He was also only King because they locked themselves in a Dwarf cave until the orcs dropped dead. He needed the Thains more than they needed him and both knew it.

Durnaldar would attend the moot and bring his fair sister with him. There she would stay with her ladies and an advisor until she married someone useful. Now, who to advise? His father’s retainers were mostly killed with him except old Penlieff who was abed with gout. The man retired but had not forgotten much. If the healer could not be had, the Thain would see how the counselor was enjoying private life.

“This is a surprise, sir. I thought you had forgotten your old friend.” He had been kind to the young heir. Most of his father’s advisors viewed the boy as a nuisance.

“I apologize. We’ve been busy.”

“I understand.” More seriously now, “I’ve been expecting you, but I had to wait until you learned what I did not know. Come, let us go inside.”

They walked into the man’s modest home three doors down from the town hall. “Would you like tea? I’ve got ale too. Can’t drink ale anymore, makes my foot swell.”

“Tea, thank you.”

Making sure the maid was gone, Penlieff asked, “Have you figured out who did it?”

“I think Fändul, but it seems personal. He is not trying to take advantage of my supposed inexperience. No one has stolen so much as a goat.”

“Thain Durnaldar; I was of two minds. One was Fändul and the other was Easterlings who should not have been here. I think your father, may he rest among his ancestors, was hiring renegades leaving eastern lands in opposition to their new ruler, Bror, they call them. This new fellow is trying to make farmers of his soldiers. Their generals don’t like that.

“Dale is much stronger and so are the northern Dwarves. With no dark lord’s orcs, they best the Lings could manage would be stealing some wheat after a bad harvest. They’ve had rain for two years now so no one is starving. Generals don’t like that either. My lore was never good, but I was told they are elements of the old Balchoth riders back when east of the Redwater meant something … servants of the dark ones. With the One Ring melted, they look for green pastures.”

His new Thain asked, “Aquiith, what do you know of a healer; spinster woman who was treating da for stomach complaints?”

The counselor leaned back in his chair, “Ah, so we come to that. I knew less than Slieth or Vorondïl and now they molder for it. But I will tell you this; the old Thain was talking out of his head and farting more than ever, so she wasn’t there for his bowels. You commanded the fifth near the ferry so you missed much, probably no accident; that. Forgive me for not telling you, but if real Easterlings done your da, I could not be sure they weren’t working for you. Since you are here, you have earned the right to hear everything I know. Now, what do you make of the hag?”

Durnaldar shook his head, “Not much. I tried to bring her in but she burned the trooper with a spell. If anyone sees her, they are to get help first. Durnalath did not like her at all. Says she and father were scheming.”

“A dear lass. She must be almost grown by now.” The old adviser, who was not that old, said this; “Let us count our lentils; the hag was not working for your da. As much as I love my home, nobody would pick Nauthauja to start a coup in Dale. Your father Thain was not pulling the strings. I know he got letters from the capital and had ears among the merchants. Lings go in for that sort of devilry, or they did when Sauron paid the bills … maybe one of the lads that got sliced-up small.”

Durnaldar had not considered that. “And what do I do about the healer?”

Penlieff’s old strength showed through, “Fight fire with fire, son! Find out who scared the dougsh out of those Lings! I’d wager Florins to groats Conath knows.”

The young Thain decreed, “Then consider this, counselor. Birds whisper that King Bard will call the other-year moot for Dale next spring. I was thinking of taking my sister with me and leave her there to seek the right husband. I cannot fight Dale. We both know that. But she is a fair prize. If marrying into this new land is the way of things, I have strong cards. I will not leave my wife, though. And that is final.” Antulie was a local girl of good parents but not political fodder. She would be suckling their son about now.

Penlieff followed that thread, “Conath’s older boy is logical. Excuse me, sir. I said boy but he is your age. The problem is that Fändul’s piles will rupture in the vise you create by allying with Austar after Conath’s other son married the King’s new sister, however the devil she managed that.”

“I believe Brand gets the credit. Would you consider going with us to guide Durnalath and protect our home?”

“I would be honored, My Thain.”


	37. Thainmoot

**_Chapter 37_ **

**_Thainmoot_ **

The winter in Dale dragged on. They received more snow, wind and cold than usual. Farmers thought planting would be late. When the escort riders returned to the capital, stories ran rampant about the avenging Elf of blood and sorcery. Gossip eased in his absence. People remembered slaying Easterlings was a good idea. 

As expected, the King officially called a moot of the Thains or their representatives to present themselves here in the capital in mid-May. Folk with fine homes were generously encouraged to find other quarters for those two weeks. Until now, Thainmoots had been regional affairs. With military threats from the east and orcs reduced, The King felt it was time for a wider vision. Not all of these Thains saw eye-to-eye; Conath and the Queen’s father among them. 

Conath was busy at home preparing for his first grandchild. More correctly, Halditha was. The best local midwife was on call for grandmother’s every concern, though the mother was quite content to let nature take its course. Her stepfather had some skills in that area too. On April 19th Ardatha brought forth a healthy baby girl. They named her Haldiera after her grinning grandma. Eniece had been close but not underfoot and helped her daughter and new grandbaby as they settled into a new home on the Thain’s property. As much as Thain Conath would have had Eniece and Nag Kath stay forever, it was time to go. To him and others, the mother was more the daughter. With promises to return, they fared the family well and rode north. No one even asked about an escort.

Eniece handled travel fairly well but would only do this for people she liked. Nothing interesting happened. There was room at the inns. Vandery had a stone removed from his hoof in Iron Hills. They saw rain crossing the Iron Road. Nag Kath pointed to the troll hoard and was tempted to go up but those loose rocks were slippery and Eniece wanted nothing to do with troll caves. The highlight of the trip was the Thain of Riding hosting an impromptu feast with plenty of meat and wine. They stayed with him else he would have shown his bride the original feather mattress.

The weather turned fair near the capital the first week in May so Nag Kath asked a day’s grace to visit his friends in Erebor. Tombor was in residence and showed them in one of the lesser halls allowed to men. He said pointedly that it was too bad there wasn’t more of that mithril! Eniece glowed. How could anything be so grand? She had been just inside the gate when the Easterlings laid siege but not back into the Dwarf Realm. After a superb luncheon, they said goodbye.

Eniece collapsed in bed and slept for a whole day and night. Nag Kath would watch her for hours. It made her uncomfortable at first but what else was he going to do? For such a delicate creature, she slept soundly and shuffled at waking for a few minutes while finding her feet. He treasured it all.

During the winter, Eniece thought she might be pregnant. That caused a wider discussion than for most families. What kind of child would the changeling throw? That could range from beautiful to unthinkable. Could Eniece carry it to term? Could he even have children? For her part, Eniece had changed as many swaddling rags as she thought she needed to. Concerns faded when her cycle started again. In the end, they decided they would be intimate as often as they liked and let come what may.

They also decided they needed more help. Brenen was assigned to find a new home along lines Nag Kath drew over the winter. A stone building that had been a tavern in ancient times just west of the royal compound would suit their eclectic lifestyle and had room for two staff, consistent with the mother of a Princess’ status.

In mid-May, the first Thain contingent to arrive was from Nauthauja. The new man, an advisor, servants and a dozen outriders pulled into the city and were housed in a private compound rented from folk staying with relatives. Among their group was the Thain’s younger sister who caused jaws to drop. She had just turned eighteen and could be an Elf with long blonde hair and pale skin. Durnalath was not what a country of Northmen had come to expect from provincial relatives.

A day later, Durnaldar joined Penlieff waiting in the ante-chamber and both were seated before the King. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality, Sire. We are quite comfortable.”

Not one to waste words, Bard proclaimed, “Good. I expect we have other things to discuss before the moot, yes?”

Penlieff agreed, “We think so as well, Sire.”

The King said slowly, “I am sorry for trouble in the Nether Marches. Is that in hand now?”

Durnaldar replied, “Yes, my Lord. It seems Easterlings in opposition to the new Bror crossed the river. He has since discouraged that.” He could have said the tyrant had his opponents wrapped in pig hides before roasting.

Bard continued in the same calm manner, “Then would it be fair to say that is behind us?”

The Thain’s counselor answered, “Yes, Sire. We are only looking forward now.” The King knew the man was only here because he was ill for the old Thain’s last ride, a fortunate malady, if true. 

This was easier than the King expected. The son was impressive and seemed to think before he spoke, something he had not learned from his impulsive da. And the counselor was no one’s fool. Bard changed the subject, “I understand your sister has come all this way with you, Thain Durnaldar. Has she been to the city before?

“Nay, Sire. She has stayed to the south but now hopes to meet new and interesting people on her trip. With your permission, she will stay for the season and learn more of our rich heritage.”

It was time for this young man to finish his ablutions, “Thinks she to learn Queenly virtues?”

Durnaldar had been expecting that one, “Perhaps a noble match, Sire. As we all know, there is but one Queen.”

Good! That was settled. “Counselor Penlieff, I was told you were unwell earlier. I see healers were able to find remedies.”

The man gave a soft chuckle and replied, “Just cleaning living, Sire. Good healers are hard to find. One must vet them quite thoroughly. Alas, our late Thain’s healer may have returned to family elsewhere.”

“Let me know if she returns to my realm.”

Durnaldar said levelly, “We look even now, my Lord.”

Bard concluded, “Excellent. In four nights I will be hosting a reception. You already have your invitations?” They did. “I hope your sister is recovered from her long journey and can join us.”

_____________--------_____________

On their way down the corridor, Thain Durnaldar asked, “What news of the slayer?”

“No secrets there, sir. Everyone here knows much the same story. An Elf, who lives as a man, was traveling to the Austar with a half-squadron. His wife was with him. She was old Brand’s mistress and mother of Reyald Conath’s new bride. They were attacked by your da’s Easterlings, except he was already dead as Durok. That night, the Elf slipped into their camp as death itself. I can’t imagine the Easterlings chose them as targets for lack of cowardly merchant trains. My guess is that someone here paid their asking price. 

“The strange thing is; the Elf returned here and lives as an artist, bless me. Never comes to the palace, pays his taxes and lives modestly. He clearly has skills but doesn’t seem to be in sinister employment. I will keep up quiet inquiries. It might just be those Lings picked the wrong fight.”

As curious as anyone else, the Thain realized the sooner people lost interest, the sooner he could patch differences. It seemed the King did not thirst for his blood or his firstborn’s. Looking ahead, long abandoned farms to his west just over the river were attracting families to work them. It vaguely belonged to Dorwinion on the map but folk plowing the fields were Northmen. Extending protection to promising subjects might be in his King’s interests, something to bargain with.

Thain Fändul arrived the next day from the same road. He and his elder son greeted his daughter/Queen in the palace after donning their court clothes. His grandson Bain was not pleased to taken from his nap but Delatha was so proud to present him. “He looks like mother, I think, dearest Papa.”

"Yes, daughter, I can see that."

His uncle leaned over and said, “Aye, it is her nose.” The prince was given back to his nurse.

The Thain asked, “What news my daughter/Queen?” 

“It seems troubles to the south are in hand. The new Thain is come with sword sheathed.”

“He brought his sister with him?”

“Yes, father. It is rumored she is a beauty, young and inexperienced.” 

“Humph.”

She asked, “And you brother, how is your family?”

Jurath said “Growing like weeds. Still all daughters. Perhaps we will follow your example and save the boys for next!” 

Her Highness smiled, “I cannot wait to hear all about them. The King allows me to dine with you tonight.”

_____________--------_____________

Any number of Thain companies arrived the day after. Thain Conath and Torrold were among them with reservations in a compound like several others that had their living quarters and barracks for the men. They also had the apartment in the royal surround and thought to use that for privacy. Before climbing the hill, they and two guards visited their Eniece and Nag Kath. 

Thain Conath asked, “What have you learned of this Eniece? It is strange that we should all be together in Dale, of all places. I would not refuse our King, but the agenda seems unspecific.”

“I am as confused as you, brother Thain. But you must understand we are not included in Kingly councils. I have not seen Ardatha’s royal brother since we returned. Nag Kath?”

“Me either. But I do not insinuate myself.”

“No matter. There have been reports of orcs and wargs to the north. Old Riding hasn’t lost more than a few horses but the Iron Hills Dwarves are taking things seriously. I hope there is room for that in these royal discussions. Fändul must be here. He was just ahead of us on the Dwarf Road.”

Eniece sat with her hands folded in her lap, “Again, brother Thain, we live quietly.”

Torrold was not a busy-body but not shy either. He volunteered, “Let me see if I can liven things. There is a reception tomorrow night. Perhaps the King will add you to the list.”

The next morning an invitation arrived by liveried messenger addressed to the Kaths asking if they could attend tonight’s festivities, an after-dinner affair starting at eight. At seven thirty they left in their finest and made their way to the gate. Some Northmen walked like their chests were bound with rope in their snug city togs. The reception was in the main Hall. With only a hundred and twelve people, there was plenty of room. Beverages were available around the perimeter. Eniece and Nag Kath hardly knew anyone. Folk looked at them, but not unpleasantly. Conath and Fändul were on opposite sides of the room. Torrold Conath was talking with a subaltern from Buhr Wenjen and his wife. 

Thain Durnaldar, his sister and Penlieff walked in a little later and started greeting people they knew. The young Thain had often been with traveling cavalry from the age of fifteen and knew people on most staffs. Some of those men were also up in the world. Everyone either stared at the young woman or pretended they weren’t. Durnalath could almost be Elvish, but without the confidence of time. 

The lass seemed tired. Other young women in attendance were excited. Other than her retainers, she did not know a soul. Her brother carefully steered her around the room until the King and Queen were announced. After being introduced, the Queen often separated herself from her husband at these events. She did not need guidance and had friends in several groups. Among the first people she visited were Nag Kath and Eniece. The changeling offered, “Your highness is radiant tonight.”

“Thank you, Nag Kath. It has been too long. And you, my dear …,” she took Eniece’s hand, “I am glad you are restored to us after unpleasantness in your journeys.”

Eniece curtsied, “Thank you, my Lady. I was in good hands. Please accept our best wishes for your son.”

The Queen changed from energetic to content, “Thank you.” Looking at Nag Kath, “I was in good hands also. Please make merry. These are many of our nation’s Thains.” Leaning over more quietly, “I hope you will help put them at ease. Some of them look miserable.”

“We will, my Lady. Enjoy the evening.”

It was no accident that Torrold Conath met Durnalath. He was talking with one of the heirs of Celduin when the brother and sister approached. Conath was impressed but was not the sort to stammer like a youngster. They spoke for a while and hoped to see each other again in the course of the moot. 

As the reception followed the usual pattern, Dural Finrales, Counselor of the Arrow, recognized Nag Kath as the fellow standing by the pictures that soothed the King last year. He walked over to shake hands. Nag Kath introduced Eniece. Finrales said, “Ah, Lady Eniece. I am glad you could come tonight.”

Excusing himself, Finrales turned and accidentally bumped into the young Thain and his sister. He apologized and Durnaldar assured him it was nothing. As Finrales headed for the hall, Penlieff recognized what could only be the infamous Elf and his wife. This was not on the agenda but too good an opportunity to miss. The Thain and counselor introduced themselves. They seemed pleasant enough. Amid the chitchat, Durnalath walked to a finger-food table and palmed a small serving knife. As she was making her way back to the other side of the room, her brother caught her elbow and said, “Durnalath, these are Nag Kath and Eniece of Dale and Esgaroth.”

She looked unsettled and kept turning to the royal entrance. There was something wrong with her eyes. This wasn’t the blinking or squinting of someone with weak vision. They were fighting something inside. Nag Kath told her she was very brave for coming all this way. She produced a vague smile and thanked him. Knowing this was not the time to pursue her upset, he told the Thain and counselor that he hoped they would meet again so he could learn more about their proud land. Pretending to consider it, they agreed it was a capital idea.

On their way home, Nag Kath mused, “Lady Eniece? Have you been elevated lately?”

“Not that anyone told me, husband.”

“Lady Eniece Thurnë … it has a nice ring to it!” She kept her first husband’s name. They agreed it sounded better than orc number six. “The young woman; did you see anything unusual?” 

She giggled, “Other than all the men drooling?”

“I never drool in public. I think she has been drugged. Wasn’t it her da on the wrong end of those lads we met?”

Eniece said thoughtfully, “I don’t remember. It was all something of a haze. Do you think she is in danger?”

“I am sure of it.” 

______________--------______________

The Thainmoot was in its third day. The King proposed national granaries against floods or drought. Several Thains said people were settling just outside their lands, many of them from Dale, and saw benefits to the King’s continued governance. There were endless border disputes. The King would create a commission to draw those maps fairly. Some thought that grand. Others would prefer to leave things vague. In the north there were wargs and unconfirmed reports of orcs. No one wanted to send their own troops. Neither did the King unless the Dwarves would too. There were two main meetings per day with a long lunch for side deals. Conath and Fändul spoke privately for half a bell without smashing any furniture. Their sons would talk later. 

Thain Durnaldar said little in public. Borders were discussed and his father’s misjudgments had been privately absolved. He wanted his sister to be presented properly but the girl was fatigued and sat alone or with her maid in her quarters. 

The next afternoon was specific to the northern clans so Penlieff reminded his Thain that the Elf creature might still have some use. A messenger was dispatched to see if Nag Kath could join them for lunch. 

When he arrived he was shown to the main room. Durnaldar and Penlieff both came out of the corridor in welcome. The Thain said he looked forward to telling the Elf of their beautiful land. Penlieff did the same for a minute until Nag Kath interrupted him, “Gentlemen, I have come about the girl.”

They looked at each other. He was married and she was destined for higher things. Nag Kath continued, “She is ill, yes?”

Durnaldar said brusquely, “I fail to see what business that is of yours.” 

Nag Kath leaned back in his chair and mused, “None, and much. Mr. Penlieff has been asking about me. You both know what I am capable of. There was sorcery here last year. I think the child is under a spell now.”

The Thain scoffed, “Nonsense. My sister is merely fatigued.”

Nag Kath rose and set Lentaraes’ hook, “Then I am sorry to have wasted your time. I will show myself out.”

He almost reached the door when he heard, “Wait.”

Nag Kath turned and asked, “A woman, a childless woman?”

Penlieff said, “Aye.”

“I should see the girl. And I warn you, this will not be pleasant.”

The Thain demanded, "What will you do? She is my baby sister and I would leave this place in the black of night ere I see her die.”

“I do not think she is in peril yet. But time is short.”

Thain Durnaldar turned to his advisor and nodded. The man rose and walked down the hall with a slight limp. A few minutes later he returned with Durnalath, still tousled from mid-day sleep. The Thain cajoled, “Ah dear sister, you remember Nag Kath. He is come to help you feel better.”

“Nay brother. I need only rest.”

“But dear sister, we …”

“Nay brother! I am quit of remedies!”

They never saw the Elf cross the room to grab her wrist in one hand and her face with the other. Her skin changed from peaches to a bilious yellow as she screamed from the depths of her soul. It started with anger and ended with fear before she lost consciousness.

Nag Kath laid her on the couch and sat beside her. His own color changed with hers. Blood trickled from his nose. He wiped it with his shirt sleeve and checked Durnalath’s breathing before laying his head on the back of the cushion to stare at the ceiling. 

The Thain rose to comfort his sister who was sleeping calmly. Nag Kath brought his head back and said, “Your sister will sleep a while. She is improved, but the only person I know who can banish the spell works for the Queen. If you want the lass back, we must go through her.”

Nag Kath staggered to a small desk searching for pen and paper. Finding neither, he asked Penlieff to help. The man fetched his own satchel for materials and Nag Kath wrote;

**_My Lady,_ **

**_I fear a similar spell to your own afflicts Miss Durnalath. She is very ill and needs a good manicurist. Time is short. There is more to your mystery and the lass is the key. I will stay with her until then. The messenger knows where we are._ **

**_Your loyal subject, Nag Kath_ **

A drop of blood splattered on the page before he folded it and wrote the Queen’s name on the outside. “Mr. Penlieff, your fastest man needs to take this to her Highness.” Then he sat next to the unconscious Thain-child and fell fast asleep.

_____________--------_____________

He wasn’t sure how long it took because he was dead to the world. A trooper showed Miss Quessan into the room. She was much the better for recent company. Someone untangled her hair. She was well dressed and eating better. The more a healer heals, the thinner they are.

She walked over to him on the couch and said, “Figures,” before kicking his boot. He shook himself awake as she added, “You want to tell me what occurred?”

“Hello Mooan. Let me introduce Thain Durnaldar and Mr. Penlieff.” Looking sideways at the girl, “and this is Durnalath. Same sorcerer as last time. Daughter of the … ummmm … late Thain. I … I pulled something rotten. Did … did not get it all. I think they arrrrrre trying again.”

She cracked a smile, “Nag Kath, you wizards aren’t what you used to be. Heard you got married.”

“Yes, I …”

“Was that you carved-up the Lings in the marches?”

He blinked trying to focus, “Umhmmm.” 

She turned to the Thain and advisor, “It is a pleasure to meet you.” Healing rashes for high hill-women had improved her social skills. “I need to examine your sister. You can leave if you like.” They sat where they were but the Thain had gotten an ale while Nag Kath was sleeping. Mr. Penlieff had tea.

Nag Kath rose so Quessan could sit next to the girl and pointed to the tea mug next to Penlieff. He handed Nag Kath the pitcher on a side table which the Elf nearly drained before sitting in an adjacent chair.

Miss Quessan held the girl’s wrist and felt for pulses. Then she did the same at her throat. Taking Durnalath’s left wrist in both hands she applied the spell and let it build. The girl shook for a moment and relaxed. A few minutes later, Miss Quessan leaned back on the couch the same way Nag Kath had and said, “It was not as bad as I feared. I think he took most of it.” nodding to the Elf. “She will wake in a moment.” Durnalath slowly came around and shrieked her brother’s name when she saw him. 

Miss Quessan said, “There, there, dear. You are all right now. Can you sit up?

Durnalath sat in the couch and looked frightened. If her brother wasn’t sitting across from her she would have run screaming. The healer asked gently, “Now dear, I want you to count to six very slowly.”

The first three numbers took an age but she finished strong. “There, that wasn’t so hard. Someone has tried to hurt you but you are better now.”

The girl considered that and said, “Yes. Yes. It was like I was dreaming and could not wake up. Daddy was so cross. Brother, did I come to Dale? I remember riding so far.”

“Yes, dear sister. We are in Dale now. And you are going to be fine.”

Miss Quessan looked at Nag Kath who was still green as spinach. No help there. She continued, “Child, who must you kill?”

She mumbled, “I am a good wife. I, I don’t know. I had to wait. They told me to wait … then I was ready. It is gone now.”

The healer thought a moment and turned to the queasy Elf. “She could not have sustained this. Some signal had to be made recently to dredge this up after so long. Turning to the Thain, “How long has she been listless and confused?”

“Some months.”

Back to her, “Child, did you touch anyone new recently?”

Later that day, the same large men who spoke with the larder vendor visited Dural Finrales, Counselor of the Arrow. He did not see the need at first but soon changed his mind. Prince Bain would need a regent. Finrales had been promised things by Brand. 

But then, who hadn’t?

______________--------______________

After speaking with the guardi, Miss Quessan slowly walked Nag Kath back to his house. Once inside, she sat him more-or-less upright on the couch as Eniece walked down the steps. He looked at his wife and said, “Eniece; Miss Quessan. Mooan; Eniece.”

Eniece half said, half asked, “You are the healer?”

Mooan replied, “That’s me. Fraid your man was in over his head again.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Yeah. He is tougher than smart.” Mildly chiding him, “Tried to cure a confusion block with a healing spell, didn’t you?”

“Ummhhh?”

Miss Quessan sat on a chair and said, “Give him a couple days. He’s been through this before. Good thing it was a subtle spell or he would be a simpleton for a week. He will do anything you want for the rest of the day.”

“I suppose Nauthauja has some explaining to do.”

Quessan said gravely, “As we speak.” 

Eniece rose and walked to the stove, “Would you like tea?”

“Thank you, cold if you have it.” She did. The lady of the house poured a mug of hot for herself and handed the healer another from the jug. 

Nag Kath stared at the wall and asked Miss Quessan, “The healer in the south is a witch?”

“It seems so. I haven’t seen much healing from her. And she is for hire. She was controlling the father, the daughter and tainting supplies for the royal larder. I think they got the bad ‘un … but he would have needed to hold a spell in his flesh from the witch to trigger the poor lass. They’ll ask him politely about his friends.”

Nag Kath said to no one, “She is still out there. Where would … would someone draw that kind of pow … pow … power?”

“Oh, so you’re learning, eh?” That produced a cackle, “It is beyond me.” Miss Quessan leaned towards the edge of the couch. “Minor powers are minor because major powers crush them. Now that the dark lord and your old boss are dead, there’s no one keeping them down. Elves pull from those too but they’re leaving. These humors do not come because you are strong. They come because you are open to them. There is an emptiness in us, a void to fill. You more than most.”

Her tone became more serious, “You have to be careful Nag Kath. Powers will run to you like cats to the cream.”

The healer looked at Eniece who was not as distraught as most wives would be learning their husbands had absorbed black spells. “You are very fair, my dear, and wise. I see why he loves you.” She looked at Nag Kath whose chin was on his chest. “I give him a bad time but he has a kind heart. Be patient. Take good care of him.”

Eniece said softly, “I will try.” Miss Quessan rose and left for the palace.

After an evening of the King’s hospitality, Thain Durnaldar II of Nauthauja was escorted into Bard’s office by four armed guards who now stood against the door. The man was not offered a chair. 

“You will tell me everything you know, right now.”

“Yes Sire. I knew father contracted Easterling mercenaries looking for work after turmoil in their lands, warriors formerly favored by Sauron. I do not know how, but the blonde man convinced them to leave. I also knew my father employed a healer for digestive ailments. He had a history of that so I paid it no mind. My troop was much on our border watching Thain Fänuel, but poor Durnalath was at home with no one to protect her from devilry."

The Thain showed honor, “My Lord, if harsh justice is your decree; take me but spare her. Her mind was disordered. She deserves better than she has gotten.”

The King said with menace, “You have an infant son, yes?”

Durnaldar swallowed hard, “Ten months old, Sire.”

They had something in common. King Bard had heard enough. Finrales did some explaining. Even if the young Thain wasn’t completely forthcoming, he wasn’t involved. “I think we have this solved for the time being. I will take your oath of fealty where you stand and return you to your lands as the acknowledged Thain of Nauthauja. But I don’t want an Easterling so much as peeing on our side of the river that I don’t hear of it. And you will mend fences with Fändul before you leave Dale.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. How is your sister?”

The weight was lifted, “The healer says we will have to wait and see if her mind regains its vitality. She was always such a happy and loving child. Her body is healed. The creature Kath cured most of that, though he took a beating for it.” He thought of Lieutenant Theondul’s description of the massacre. “Your Lordship has powerful servants.”

The King had no idea what to do with the monster but there was no reason for the young Thain to know that. “He has his uses. What will you do with the girl?”

“My plan was to leave her here with her ladies and Counselor Penlieff. Suitable husbands are not pounding on our door in Nauthauja. I now think it better for her to visit Minas Tirith.”

The King said coldly, “Since I am still alive and married?”

The young Thain rubbed his own chin, “We understand each other, My Lord. She will blossom again away from this upset. May I speak plainly?”

“I prefer that.”

“I am not so sure that I want her to marry anyone for a while. She is barely eighteen and knows little of the world. She has also been ill-used in my father’s madness. I would see her sweetness restored and be treated better than barter. Forgive me if this is not in accord with your designs, Sire.”

Bard wasn’t so sure the Thain intended to whisk her out of his reach, “And if a match was in the offing in my realm, who then?”

“Conath.”

King Bard leaned forward, “Then you had better be very nice to Fändul.”

Thain Durnaldar swore fealty to his liege. Leaving his beloved sister here to recover made her a hostage against his good behavior until the King let her go south. But he was leaving with his head. It was more than he expected.

Eniece only took one liberty with her suggestible husband that night. They would try it again. The Thainmoot ended the next day. Eniece and Nag Kath came to wish father and son Conath well on their way home. By the strangest coincidence, Durnalath came to fare her brother well at almost the same time. Torrold Conath approached her and said he was glad she was recovering from her ague. As he mounted his horse he thought she did not seem as simple as the first time they met.

King Bard learned a great deal. Most important was that he needed to meet his neighbors more often. With the orcs staying above the north road and Easterlings staying east, the land just south and west of his country was settling with solid farmers and townsmen. On the map, it could belong to him, Dorwinion of the Reunited Kingdom or Rohan. He should see how the others felt about that.

Then there was the issue of Thainhold borders. Some Thains welcomed definition. Others would rather have the lines blurred since that let two districts squeeze local farmers and merchants rather than just one. Everyone should pay their taxes but the local Thains would have to manage their budgets themselves. Counselor Earkinford would head a new commission to set boundaries. That would let folk know that he was still active after Counselor Finrales’ tragic heart seizure.

Finally; what to do with Nag Kath? He was plainly dangerous. The King knew what all in Dale did by now. After the incident in the marches, his clerk of the purse told him what his brother the scholar said of the repatriation moot in Orthanc. He tore the heads off wargs with his bare hands?! The Dwarves all knew and didn’t seem to care.

But the Elf had also saved Bard’s Queen, his heir and probably the King himself. He was even a relative through some tangled association. It seemed the Elf just wanted to be a law-abiding taxpayer. And one of these days, Bard might need someone who could see to the missing healer. Fine! He would grant Nag Kath a Knight Captaincy in his Elite reserves and name Eniece a Lady of the Realm. His Sister Princess’s mother should be at least that. 

In an odd way, Brand got his wish.


	38. Married Life

**_Chapter 38_ **

**_Married Life_ **

Life settled down for the couple. Nag Kath spent a lot of time designing or working on the new house. He needed physical labor. It reminded him of building the barn in Isengard. 

Even though they liked their home, it couldn’t fit full-time servants. Brenen was running their business, rather well actually, so he wasn’t cleaning the ashes or the porch or anything else. Neither of them could cook more than eggs or fish. And Eniece was the mother of the King’s sister which almost required attendants. A woman from down the street cooked and cleaned part time but did not want to live-in. 

Married life truly caught-up with them one afternoon before they moved. In good light, they sat on the couch and unfurled ten pounds of rolled paper. Except to check for mold, he seldom looked through his art so the outside sheets were generally older than the ones in the middle.

Near the top was the large study of Erebor. Eniece remembered seeing Nag Kath for the first time and his comical advance that she was one of two matching goddesses in Middle-Earth. She teased, “Was I really like a woman you drew?”

“Oh yes. She was having dinner with her husband at a fancy restaurant in Minas Tirith. Her husband bought it for a silver, first thing I ever sold. My teacher was amazed! I’ve got a picture of Quastille somewhere in here too.” They decided he should finish Erebor and give it to Master Golord. He would draw another for Tombor. 

He saved the discarded picture of Lord Carstors and quite a few more because although they failed as first drafts, they were his diary now. 

There were pictures of the Elven King’s Halls with pillars to the sky. He had drawn an Elf next to one of them to show just how big they were. Eniece would not have believed such places existed if not for visiting Erebor. In the same vintage were watercolors of hidden gardens in the Elf Realm along with three sketches from Danethiur. “That is King Thranduil. He is as tall as me. Ummm, that’s what’s left of Tharbad.

They reached the picture of Talereth. “Oh, Nag, she is lovely!”

“My first love. That was the woman in Trum Dreng. They had to go to Minas Tirith and I could not follow.”

“They?”

Tal and Mrs. Skilleth; crafty old healer. She spotted me in a minute! When you have absorbed or expended energy in magic, other healers can tell. I fixed a broken leg a few days before.” He thought a moment, “And I attacked the villain who owned Vandery.” He said thoughtfully, “I hope Tal finds a good man. She is probably a healer too but once you embrace the gift, you should not have children. They would suffer in the womb.”

Eniece looked at the picture again. No one who looks like someone else ever thinks so, but the two women were quite similar. Tall, fair, reddish hair and elegant – lovely rather than pretty, with delicate chins. They both had the same smile. The eyes were different, though. Tal had a little mischief in hers. Eniece’s were a lake in the morning. Eniece asked with no jealousy, “Would you have stayed with her?”

“Oh yes. I tried everything. I would have returned to the White City but she would not risk my destruction. Ah, now here is the Wild Huntsman! He is ten feet tall, at least. I had to do this from memory but I think I got it. Those eyes! They shined white but turned to a rainbow. I hope he is faring well. He lives here in Dunland.” Pointing at the map on the low table, “Miserable place. I suggested he find Gandalf and return to Valinor.” Two pages down, “Those are Numenorean kings. Very serious; Numenorean kings! This page is a pit saw and this one is an idea to haul logs out of the Dusenorn.” 

The pages in the middle of the stack were of Orthanc. It was hard for her to imagine the scale of the tower so he penciled-in Mendos standing at the door. He looked like an ant. “This is my favorite. It’s Gandalf trying to light his cheap pipeweed. He would get so frustrated that he couldn’t get the good leaf from the Shire like Saruman. “This is Radagast. He is a wizard too and lives in Mirkwood. I think I will try to visit him next spring since the Woodland Elves probably won’t shoot me. He would have to want to be found, though.”

She marveled watching him relive these drawings. Here he was, discussing the most powerful creatures on earth as if they were Mortner the baker. But then, he was a changeling from their world, a bridge between the worlds. 

Many of the pictures were architectural detail in Orthanc. He set those aside for Woralth. “This is my friend Dornlas” showing a tall rangy young man with a Rohirric helmet. And these are Lord and Lady Altheras. He gave me the sword. That’s King Éomer in Meduseld. This is a tsitsi warag.” 

That brought them to Minas Tirith. The architecture was beyond her understanding. For a girl from Lake Town, anything over three stories was a palace. He described the levels and the switchbacks and how you had to avoid getting your feet run over by the man-carts since they would not stop for anyone. This was Osgiliath, much bigger than Minas Tirith but a ruin now.

He flipped the sheet. “Oh, Nag Kath, is this another lady love? She is so beautiful!”

“No, she wanted to kill me. That is Queen Arwen. She thinks I am Sauron. I don’t remember any of this but when the One Ring was destroyed, it sent a surge of dying power that killed everyone like me. Except me. She thought I was Sauron escaping. Gandalf thought Saruman used his blood in my pod of Uruks and sorcery kept me alive. I have no idea. Saruman was tall and thin and so were we. All the other Uruk-hai were thick and stocky. Here’s what I used to look like.”

He flipped back to the Orthanc era and took out the picture of Nag Duhl he drew for Gandalf. “He went to Rauros after the Hobbits.” 

She felt like someone stepped on her grave, “I like you better now.”

“Oh, here we go. This is the lady with King Aragorn. He reminds me a little of our King Bard. Except he is ninety years old! She is twenty nine hundred years old.” They were looking at the first draft of the sketch he gave the King through Quastille. It wasn’t as good as the gift but most of his best work had been given away or sold. There were small sketches of men shoeing horses and plastering walls. One was a woman yelling at her child splashing in a second-level fountain. There were several of the “Prow” and where the Nazgul ripped out the catapults. “This is Quastille with Lentaraes and Tim. That’s Mr. Tallazh.”

About a third of the pile went in the fire box, mostly because it wasn’t as good as his stock now or discards he kept because the backs were unused. It included the picture of Orthanc with the charcoal smear that made him go upstairs to demand his pencils. 

The satchel was more organized but he did take out a picture of Eniece from Buhr Austar with her “thinking face.” It had to be drawn from memory because she only used it when she was alone. He admitted, “I still haven’t captured your eyes.”

______________--------______________

This began the happiest period Nag Kath had ever known. He spent some of most days at the new home either designing or working. He liked working and ran occasionally. Roughly a week a month they spent on the lake. Eniece’s woman did not live-in so having a husband around was not much different. Most of her friends lived there. He got to know her parents, fine people and pleased their daughter had returned to the world. Mr. Borenne seemed very wise and seldom spoke. Now they were great grandparents as well and still fit enough to visit the Buhr. 

He did not see much of the royal family although Eniece had tea with the Queen every few months. She had been elevated to Lady in Attendance which was an honorary position. Nag Kath was commissioned as a Knight Captain of the Primary Reserve. That was also honorary until war. He would see where he was assigned in the fall training. Durnalath of Nauthauja went to the White City and was presented at court by her brother with proper attendants. Not three months after, she married a handsome marine visiting from Belfalas, of all places. 

The only long period of time Nag Kath spent away from home that year was traveling to the Elven Kingdom to visit Danethiur. He had to wait a day at the border until he was cleared but was then escorted directly to the King’s Halls. He did not see the King or Prince Legolas. The changeling spent four days trading ideas with the Elvish Master. When he said he would come back in a couple years, the Elf wistfully told him they would have left for Valinor. That was sad but inevitable. Chances were good that most of these people would be gone. Several years later, Dale had an economic downturn when those who supplied the Elves had no customers. In the winter he went gliding on the lakes and ponds. Eniece tried with the same result as flipping over the top of Vandery so she stayed by the fire with tea.

Years passed. He did have a seventh birthday but didn’t get stinking drunk. It was official that the Uruk-hai was gone. He lost the orcish accent and sounded like a Daleander. In news from the east, after her first child early, Ardatha had a boy and another girl when she was in her thirties. Brenen became a handsome man and married the daughter of a former head of the Mason’s Guild. And like many of the burghers in town, he filled-out around the middle shortly after. Uncle Stifo made it to age 93. 

As he thought she might, Eniece aged slowly. He was warmed by her kindness and thoughtfulness, taking more of the orc from his instincts. She made friends in Dale but never lost contact with the lake. Her friends played cards, which Nag Kath never mastered. And they traveled, usually to Buhr Austar but one time they went down the eastern edge of Mirkwood looking for Radagast. He was nowhere to be found. They met interesting people, including one of the Beorning Skin-changers who sensed something suspicious in the dubious Elf and stayed in his human form. 

Easterlings officially kept to their side of the river, though raiding parties came over at opportunity. The relationship between the countries was never cordial but they had an understanding. Enough of them became farmers they could feed themselves. Miss Quessan retired well. There was no word of the healer in the south.

Nag Kath and Eniece had no children. They would have been welcome but their lack was not cause for despair. Other children were born, friends died and life went on. They saw family here during the Thainmoots and often spent the off-year in Buhr Austar. At home, Nag Kath struggled with Sindarin, mostly for lack of effort. He had a hard time imagining the sounds. No one spoke it. His healing powers were developed by helping others, especially after a wet spring when the northern streams feeding the lake flooded and a bog fever set in. As time went by, his ability to shrug-off the absorbed illness improved. The Elf purposely ignored his sorcerous powers. Sometimes when he was alone in the wild he would test ‘the fast’ or launch arrows at speed. The colors remained as well. Either that wasn’t the Huntsman’s gift or it had more permanence than first thought. That gift was waiting for sterner tests. 

______________--------______________

Shortly after their seventeenth anniversary the wasting began. Eniece started losing weight and balance. She had pains in her chest. Nag Kath was able to ease her pain but drawing the growth ravaged him as much as her. By the time he recovered, she was that much further gone. Such skills are no match for the gift of men. 

“I am afraid, Nag. I thought I had learned to live with confidence, but it slips away. Will I see you again outside the Circles of the World?”

This was hard. He had to compose himself. “I hope so, dear Eniece, but I cannot say. My own ending might be worse. I will look for you.”

She managed a wan smile, “You made your seventh birthday. There is still hope.”

With the barest smile himself, “So I did, to confound many. Sleep now my love. I will be here.”

Always very much in love, Eniece died just before her fifty-second birthday.

Nag Kath was lost. He knew this must come but it did not need to be this soon. He cried many times. Friends were as kind as they could be but nothing anyone can say or do removes the pain. They can only cushion it. This was a terrible piece of his emotional puzzle; loss. It only means something when you have loved, and he had learned love.

He would wander the familiar streets as if a stranger or sit somewhere they used to sit. He wondered if this brought him closer to the Elves. They had to leave everything behind in their long lives. Perhaps that was why they seemed so unemotional. Life was too long to live with grief.

Eniece told him all those years ago that she had made her life small and orderly to keep from her pain. When she was ready, she rejoined the larger world. Nag Kath had spent eighteen years here, always busy but still in one place. That was his time to be small and safe and let his maturity blossom in tranquility. He did not know it then, but in coming here, he was escaping trauma that should have taken the heart of any person; a year in the torture of blackness, rejection, failed judgments. Dale offered him succor, a place to not be running or killing or hounded for things he could not leave behind.

But that was not what Gandalf told him. He barely looked any older than when he arrived. Even Elves mature. It was time to see what else the world held in store.

Brenen waited. He knew Nag Kath needed quiet. After three weeks of contemplation, Nag Kath came to him. “Hello Bren!” Brenen’s sons and daughters always gathered round when Uncle Nag came to call. His youngest boy started sword training the summer before. Where had the time gone? Brenen looked at Nedille and said, “Come along, boys! Mother has a treat for you!” She probably did and understood that the men would be off for a private walk. She was a dear woman and devoted to her husband.

Business had been good. Nag Kath had almost nothing to do with it anymore. He spent more of his time on city building projects or just doing whatever he wanted. The last four months had been entirely with Eniece. 

“Brenen, I want you to know how good a friend you have been to me. Sometimes I still see you as the lad from the docks. Perhaps that is because things do not change for me as fast as for others. Now you are a man, a father, you have made yourself something. I am very proud.

Brenen started to cry. The father Nag Kath had become was leaving. And as Elfkind measure time, he may never see him again. Nag Kath waited. He had more time than he knew what to do with now. “You have already guessed that I should move on. I intend to return every so often. Keep the house up. I will leave a few things in your care or your children’s care that I may need someday.

“Bren, I have already drawn the contract to give you two parts in three of my share of the business with the rest going to Bard. I know you will treat everyone well. My first trip will be to Buhr Austar. Ardatha has been a daughter to me as you have been a son. That will be a hard goodbye also. 

“Forgive me, my son, but I will leave quietly. We have had a great many parties over the years but I cannot bear another. Let me remember everyone as they are now. Tell them I love them and that I hope my journeys bring me here often.” 

The blonde man stood and hugged the creature who had given him so much. He cried like he never had before. They shook hands and Nag Kath walked back to his house.

The Elf traveled light. He knew he could get anything he needed on the road. Regaldin was a son of Regalo. More of a chestnut and not as large, the horse was just right for his needs. He kept a hundred Florin against finding a new home tucked in the bag and four hundred in the bank. Banking relations with Gondor were such that he could produce a letter of transfer if he needed it but he was still outlaw in most of the south. The sword of Rohan he left behind along with almost all of his art but he did take the old tube with paper and supplies. At dawn, he lightly nudged the horse out the north gate and started for Buhr Austar by way of Erebor.

Time on the road flew by. Perhaps it was because this was the first time he was alone. Barely a week later, he arrived at the Thainhold. Old Conath was still kicking and feisty as ever. So was Halditha. She gave him a hug. His letter to them and another to Ardatha had arrived four weeks ago. The couple was sad for him but would not let him wallow in it. Seeing Ardatha and Reyald was harder. She had filled-out with three children and good cooking but was still young-at-heart. Seeing him made her cry, both for her pain and for what she knew he must feel. The man made her mother so happy. 

He called her daughter. With the Thain she had two fathers, three if you included dear Mr. Thurnë. It was more than any girl could ask.

**_This ends the first book of Nag Kath_ **


End file.
